


I Want To Break Free

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Crowley is the 'other man', Fluff, Forbidden Love, Human AU, Humour, M/M, Reframing lines from canon in a new context, Sexual References, Some outsider POV (only a little bit), Song: I Want To Break Free (Queen), Strong Language, The Arrangement, Unhappy marriage, Unhealthy Relationships, and they're all Aziraphale's, because Gabriel is an asshole, botched attempts at murder, but not as you know it, established relationships - Freeform, these two can’t do anything right, y'all ready to feel Things??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-01-13 15:57:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: Aziraphale is trapped in an unhappy marriage. His husband Gabriel is about to make an announcement that will change their lives forever, and Aziraphale's secret boyfriend has a thing or two to say about it...(Or: Aziraphale is having an affair with Crowley, and he soon realises that he'd do anything to be with him)Good Omens Human AU





	1. The End Times

On top of a hill in a village, within commuting distance of London, there was a house. It had white walls, veined with creeping plants, a bare-bones minimalist interior and paving slabs instead of a front lawn. Plain-looking shrubs hugged the perimeter of the building. In this house, Mr & Mr Arch lived. They had been married for years, with not much to show for it. Aziraphale Arch was a bookish stay-at-home husband, though it hadn't really been his choice, always tied up with housework and taxes. Gabriel Arch was a businessman; American immigrant, corporate type, a real high-flier... He always had his head either up in the clouds, or up his ass. He had no time for the "little world" his husband inhabited. He had a general distaste for most things that Aziraphale loved: books, food, the neighbour from down the hill...

Yeah, the neighbour. He was very different. He was a tall, thin man, with auburn hair and a sense of fearless, unabashed confidence about him. He was all swagger and sarcasm, soft looks and genuine smiles. His name was Crowley, and Aziraphale had been having an affair with him for almost as long as he'd lived here. He liked to tell himself that he'd at least tried to resist the temptation (he had, only once... "No! We're not having this conversation, not another word!", he said, roughly three hours before finding himself clutching Crowley's bedsheets for the first time), but Gabriel made it all too easy. He was never at home. He was out of the country for weeks at a time all through the year, and he never noticed if another bottle of wine went missing from the cellar. That's not to say that he didn't sometimes suspect his husband of some wrongdoing...

"Michael told me he saw you at the park again today," he said slowly, spearing a piece of fish on the edge of his plate. His eyes, such an odd shade of blue that they appeared purple in some light, bored into him from across the table.

"It is a nice place to take a break," he said, well-practised enough in the art of infidelity that not even a note of defensiveness entered his tone. He sipped daintily from his wine glass. 

"With that low-life from down the road?" he pressed. Aziraphale guessed that was supposed to shock him. 

"He's not a low-life. Mr Janthony and I are good friends," he replied. "I've told you before. We have an arrangement; he helps me take care of that terribly high-maintenance back garden you insisted on having, and I lend him my ear. He's going through - "

"Yeah, yeah, you've told me," Gabriel interrupted, scoffing and rolling his eyes. "Poor Mr Janthony, going through an awful time with his family, yada yada, boo hoo. Don't you see what's happening, Aziraphale?" 

"Pardon?" he said testily, narrowing his eyes slightly. The clock on the wall ticked, punctuating the tense atmosphere with ceaseless regularity. Internally, his stomach flipped. The idea of being found out terrified him as much now as it did at first, when he was sneaking up and down the hill in the small hours of the morning in the warm and muddled glow of love and guilt. His first night with Crowley had been spontaneous, and he'd been terrified to go home to his husband for fear he'd see the love bites under his shirt. Luckily, Gabriel had treated him with his usual indifference, and Aziraphale couldn't help himself from going back down the hill for more the next night.

"I've seen the way he looks at you. Giving you all those sob stories, playing the victim... He's messing with you, Aziraphale," he said, looking down his nose at him. "He's a home wrecker. He'd have you in bed if he thought he could."

Technically, Gabriel was right. Crowley was a home wrecker, and he had seduced him, more than once. 

"I think you're being very unfair," he sniffed. He did feel bad for lying; not for Gabriel, but for Crowley. He wished he wasn't such a coward. If he were braver, he'd have got up and walked out on his husband years ago, right into the arms of the man he really loved. 

"Well, don't come crying to me when he takes advantage of you," he said. 

He fiddled with his food, wishing he'd remembered the soy sauce. He hummed noncommittally. "I'm not an idiot, Gabriel."

"How would you know?" He said sharply. Aziraphale stared at his plate, desperately hungry and yet reluctant to eat. He preferred eating dinner with Crowley, feeling his loving gaze at every moment, unhurried and non-judgemental. Lost in thought, he jumped when Gabriel's hand clasped over his with surprising tenderness.

"Has he, Aziraphale?" he asked, his face unreadable, despite the fact that he was trying to appear soft and forgiving. It didn't suit him.

"Has he what?" he said, baffled by the sudden show of affection. The flicker of gentleness reminded him of a dim and distant memory, from the short-lived days when he thought he was in love with this man. They had gone too fast for him, and rushed into commitment before he'd been able to realise his mistake.

"Hurt you. Tried anything," he said. His eyes searched his husband's face, looking for any sign of panic. 

"No!" he said, affronted and a little concerned. This was the first time Gabriel had been so direct about his suspicions. He snatched his hand away, heart hammering from the emotional whiplash. "He is a dear friend of mine, and that is all. Please, just... just change the subject."

Gabriel hummed, and withdrew his hand. The detached, cool expression returned to his face. "All right. I have some good news," he said, a flicker of a smile toying with the edge of his mouth. Aziraphale looked up, giving him a quizzical look with a mouthful of food. "I've been offered a position in head office, back home."

He swallowed thickly. "Home?" he echoed, voice wavering.

"Back in the US," he clarified, face cracking into a broad grin. "They said I'd be an asset. Isn't that great?"

Aziraphale squawked. "You said yes?" he cried, dropping his fork.

"I did!" he said, hands spread open and not quite picking up on his husband's mounting horror. "We're moving out there this summer."

"B - but - !" 

"But nothing, babe, this is the best thing that's ever happened to us," he said victoriously. Aziraphale deflated. He hated it when Gabriel used pet names for him, and at this point it was just rubbing salt in the wound. "No more rainy days, no more stupid London smog, no more going on long business trips."

Aziraphale gaped at him. He had definitely lost his appetite now, and the ground seemed to be giving way underneath him. The glaring white kitchen worktops were starting to give him a headache as the stress set his whole body alight.

"Gabriel..."

"What? Something wrong?" he said nonchalantly, already resuming eating.

"You didn't even ask me..." he said weakly.

Gabriel looked up incredulously, frowning as if he was being ridiculous. "Why would I need to ask?" he said, raising an eyebrow. 

"I like it here, that's why!" he cried, gesturing broadly to the house, though this was his least favourite place in the village. "We have everything we need already - all the little cafes, and - and the parks, and the book shops and... I have - I have friends here."

His mind was focused solely on Crowley. He was thinking of their clandestine coffee shop dates, their strolls in the park to feed the ducks, and the way he always bought him a new book for his collection every Valentine's Day. Gabriel wouldn't understand. He didn't know what it was like, to be in love. He certainly didn't love him.

"So?" he said, shrugging. He got up, leaving his empty plate on the worktop. He pressed a rough kiss to his temple as he passed by. "You can't have change without change, honey. Sandy told me that one at work. Clever, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale sat, frozen, at the kitchen island for at least an hour. Heat built behind his eyes until it was spilling down his cheeks. He pressed his hand over his mouth, desperately muffling his sobs as the fabric of his life was torn down around him. It had always been a delicate balancing act. He had always thought that if it went wrong, it would be because he got caught heading back up the hill at night - or worse, caught while he was still in Crowley's bed. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Gabriel may think that this was just the next step, but for Aziraphale... the whole world was ending this summer, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Crowley had been alarmed at first, when Aziraphale stumbled into his house and collapsed into a sobbing mess in his arms. He thought Gabriel had done something to him, and was more than ready to storm right up the hill with a baseball bat and a solid alibi ("No ma'am, I couldn't possibly have murdered him, I was too busy fucking his husband at the time"). It was lucky that Crowley had been taking one of his long lunch breaks from work, though work was a generous term for what he did. He was a home-based HR administrator, who mostly just sat around quietly and let things take care of themselves. He was, as he put it, 'making bureaucracy work for him'. He took Aziraphale into his living room, settling close to him on his black leather sofa, gathering his most plush and inviting cushions around him and offering him cocoa. Then, when he gathered himself enough to form words, Aziraphale explained what had happened.

"You're... you're leaving?" Crowley breathed, his amber eyes stretched wide. 

Aziraphale stared lovingly into his eyes, even as his heart shattered. He loved those eyes. Their unusual colour, the elongated pupils... It was coloboma, he'd once explained. It had inspired the snake tattoo on his face. 

"In the summer," he replied weakly, clinging to Crowley's shirt. "I... I'm so scared. I don't want to go."

He wrapped his arms tightly around him, feeling Crowley reciprocate. "Then don't," he said, anger flaring up in his voice. "Just tell that prick to go fuck himself, and... and you can stay at my place, if you like."

He gave a half-hearted laugh. "I can't," he said. "I'm s'posed to be a good person. I can't... can't..."

"Not do what you're told?" he finished scornfully. Aziraphale tried to avoid his gaze, only for his head to be tilted up gently to face him. "He doesn't own you, angel. No one does."

He sniffled. "If I leave him... Crowley, I'll have nothing."

"You'll have me," he replied quietly. Aziraphale's breath hitched, tears threatening to spill again.

"Oh, you - you old fool," he said, hiccuping on his grief. "I'm more trouble than I'm worth. Why did you ever bother with me? Look at you. You could have had anyone you wanted."

He let out a snort. "You think too much of me," he said fondly. He stroked his hair comfortingly, letting Aziraphale's head fall down onto his shoulder. "You remember how we met, don't you?"

He smiled. "Of course," he said. "You hit Gabriel with your car."

Aziraphale and Gabriel had been out that day, and they'd had an argument. Aziraphale wanted to get a job, doing anything really, but his husband was having none of it. Why would Aziraphale need a job? Gabriel gave him what he needed. He had just stormed out into the road, mid-lecture, when an antique Bentley had come careening around a corner and broken half his ribs. It had put Gabriel in hospital for a while, incapacitated, while Aziraphale handled the situation. Acting on his husband's behalf, he didn't press charges (which Gabriel was later furious about), and Crowley was very surprised when Aziraphale walked out of the hospital room and shook his hand with an amused smile. It had been the start of a beautiful friendship, which grew into an even more beautiful romance.

"Well, do you want to know why I hit him?" Crowley said, tangling his hands in his pale blond curls.

"Hate at first sight?" he guessed, the bittersweet memories lifting his spirits a little.

"I wasn't looking at him. I wasn't even looking at the road," he said, casting his mind back to behind the wheel all those years ago. "I'd been completely distracted by the gorgeous angel stood beside him."

Aziraphale gave an undignified snort of laughter, rolling his eyes and sitting up. He raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, dear?" he said with a helpless grin.

"What?" he said, spreading his arms as he reclined back on the sofa. "It's the truth."

"You old sap," he said. He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Crowley sat up, nuzzling close to his neck.

"Wine?" he suggested.

He frowned. "Crowley, it's half nine in the morning," he said.

"Crises have no schedule, angel. I've got a bottle I think you'll like, I had it squirrelled away for Christmas, but... well," he said, clearing his throat at the stern reminder that times were changing soon. "No time like the present, eh?"

He smiled sadly. "Quite."

By noon, they were definitely drunk. Aziraphale wondered if he'd be sober by the time Gabriel got home from work - of if, indeed, he'd still be too tipsy to make it back up the hill without being incredibly suspicious. In his present state of mind, he couldn't quite bring himself to care. There was only him, and Crowley, and the impending disaster looming over their heads. 

They had retreated into Crowley's indoor greenhouse, where lush and verdant plants clustered by the tall windows, soaking up the sunshine from outside. Crowley had set up two chairs in the room where they could safely drape themselves over one another, without fear of any nosey neighbours peeking through the windows at the front of the house. Aziraphale laid back quite far in his chair, staring up at the pet snake which wound itself around the stems of the plants. Its yellow eyes reminded him of Crowley.

He grumbled some odd, indistinct noise. "This thing, he's like - he's like - "

"Whuh?" Crowley said, lifting his head from his glass.

"The kraken," he said, putting on a funny voice. He reached out and tapped the snake on the snout. It recoiled slightly, but didn't hiss. It liked Aziraphale. "Great biiiig bugger..."

Crowley suddenly lurched up in his seat, raising his hand as if to make a very insightful point, then promptly forgot. "Tha's mah point!" he cried regardless, then frowned. "Uhh... Big - er - big thing, the sea!"

"Sea?" he said, squinting. He vaguely remembered, about half an hour ago, Crowley trying to talk him out of flying to America because the plane could crash into the ocean.

"Yeeeeah! Like - you've got - um, sharks, in there, see... and... DOLPHINS!" he said, trying to stand up dramatically and falling straight back down into his seat. "Tha's mah point. Big brains, dolphins. Crash in wi' them, an- and they'll nick your wallet."

Aziraphale groaned, shaking his head vaguely. "I like dolphins..." he murmured sincerely, finishing his wine .

"And whales, cor, brain CITY, whales!" he continued. "And if you survive all that, and you land with your - hus - husbon - bun- ergh, your hubby, then you've got to live with him for... eternitaaaaaaaay!"

He shrieked the last word dramatically. Then he wobbled, and fell silent. "Or, not eternity, just... till you die, which is the same thing really," he said, ruffling his red hair with his free hand. He looked at his lover's forlorn face, staring hopelessly at the stone floor. "Till death do us part... S'good idea, that."

Aziraphale pouted. "Marriage vows?" he said, tilting his head. Judging by the way the whole world tilted with it, he decided not to stand up.

"No!" Crowley said, flapping his hands as if to bat the suggestion out of the air. "Death!"

"S'a bit dramatic, dear," he said chastisingly. "M'not that unhappy."

"Not you!" he hissed, flopping back down into his chair. He leaned forward, and Aziraphale reciprocated, as if they were about to share a secret. "Him."

"What?" he said, face creased with confusion. 

"Gabriel, I mean," he said, gesturing broadly. "We could kill him. No vows broken then, eh?"

Aziraphale's breath hitched. He drew himself up unsteadily, jaw slack. "Well!" he spluttered. "I hardly think it's in the spirit of marriage, Crowley!"

"Eeeeeh, whatever," he said, shuffling the seat forward, the metal feet shrieking against the paving slabs underfoot. "Whaddaya say?"

Aziraphale fidgeted, avoiding his gaze. "No."

"Wha-?" he scoffed, spreading his arms with a frown. Wine sloshed over the edge of his glass. "Come on, angel."

"No."

"Look, this isn't some little risk I'm asking you to take just so we can go to the cinema on a week night, you can't say no," he said peevishly. 

"No!" he insisted, wobbling to his feet. "I've told you, Crowley, m'not interested."

"But - "

"We are not killing anybody," he interrupted forcefully, articulating each word so clearly you might have even mistook him for sober. He stared at Crowley's mournful face, gazing up at him like a fallen angel might stare at the distant gates of heaven, wishing he could go home. 

"I don't want to lose you, Aziraphale," he whispered, voice straining with suppressed tears. "I don't wanna lose my best friend."

Aziraphale rubbed furiously at his eyes, trying to banish the tears gathering there. "Oh dear," he said breathily, setting down his wine glass. Leaning over, he pressed a soft kiss to Crowley's lips. "I love you, my dear. I love you. I do."

"I love you too," he said, barely audibly, achingly reluctant to let him pull back. He did anyway. Gabriel forced him to do enough things he didn't want to already, and Crowley had sworn a long time ago that he would treat his angel better than that. 

"Lord, I can't deal with this while I'm drunk..." he said, hanging his head.

"Coffee?" Crowley suggested.

"Please."

The local church was a beautiful old stone building, sprawled across an expansive cemetery with a spire stretching up to split the clouds. Coloured light streamed in from the ornate glass windows, dappling the pews with lively kaleidoscopes. Aziraphale especially appreciated the smell of old masonry, paper and varnish. It was a safe haven. He came here every Sunday, listening to the vicar, Reverend Tracey, in her soft and friendly way of speaking. The congregation was small but devoted, and a very supportive community. Gabriel refused to attend this church; he had an issue with Rev Tracey. She had previously made a living through seances and... other things, but converted and later became ordained after a sort of heavenly possession experience during one of her seances. In any case, it was too unorthodox for the high-and-mighty Gabriel, who attended the less decorative church on the other side of town. 

Aziraphale hadn't forgotten his conversation with Crowley, even after he'd sobered up. It was playing on his mind. He thought about it as he sat in his usual spot amongst the pews, while Rev Tracey gave her sermon. He desperately wanted to stay here, to somehow have the best of both worlds: was it possible to walk out on Gabriel without breaking his vows, but also without murdering him? To just... disappear from his life, and reappear in Crowley's instead, as if by magic?

"Mister A?" a kindly voice asked, breaking through his thoughts. He startled, looking up abruptly. He was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed the sermon had ended. 

"Oh!" he said, glancing over his shoulder. The church was empty, apart from him and the Reverend. "Oh, I am so sorry, I'm afraid I... I must have been rather distracted."

"I'd say so, Mr A," she said, an amused, thin-lipped smile on her face. Her ageing face was framed with a silky blonde bob, unlike the curled red hair she'd sported as a younger woman. "Is there something bothering you?"

He hesitated a moment too long. "Er - yes, rather," he admitted. He dropped his gaze to floor, at the large slabs making up the nave. 

She sat down next to him, her hands folded in her lap. "If there's something you need to get off your chest, dearie, you can tell me," she said. He swallowed hard, daring to look up at her. She kept a kind, open expression. "It's all confidential, of course. Nothing I hear goes beyond these walls."

He clasped his hands tightly together, sucking in a deep breath. "I - I'm afraid I've committed a rather grave sin, Reverend Tracey," he said shakily. "Unforgivable, even."

A mildly amused expression passed over her face. "Oh, Mr A," she cooed, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I've known you for years, and I've never seen you so much as drop a piece of litter. You're a good man, and I honestly don't believe a gentlemen such as yourself could do anything unforgivable."

He fixed her with a blank stare for a long moment. "I've been having an affair for eleven years," he said bluntly. 

"Oh!" she said, eyes as wide as dinner plates. Her lips formed a defined O shape. Her jaw worked up and down for a moment, unable to grasp the words. "That's... well, that is a shock."

He nodded, his jaw set too tightly to open it. She gathered herself, forcefully wiping the surprise off her face and resuming a more professional approach. "Mr Arch," she said, crossing her legs. "Eleven years is a very long time. How long have you been married?"

"Fifteen years," he said tightly.

He saw a cord in her neck twitch. He was definitely damaging his own image right now, but there was nowhere else he could turn. "So, you've been unfaithful for most of the duration of your marriage," she surmised. She nodded to herself, digesting that information for a moment. "Are you unhappy?"

"Desperately," he said, a shudder running through him. He expected to see judgement in her eyes; instead, he saw pity, and genuine good will. 

"You poor man," she said, clasping her hands over his. "Have you discussed this with your husband?"

He nodded, a lump developing in his throat. "I've tried," he said. He took deep breaths, in and out. "He doesn't listen. I've wanted to get a job, maybe in a library or a bookshop, but he won't let me. He says he provides for me, and that should be enough, but he's never there. When he is, he's terribly scornful..."

Tracey felt the urge to cry herself, but quashed it. "So, this affair... Is it a way that you've tried to take back control in your life?" she said, rubbing her thumb across the back of his hand. Her eyes lingered on the gold wedding band on his hand. It was scratched and tarnished, clearly not taken care of. The ring beside it, on his little finger, gleamed as if it had been bought this morning.

He shook his head, sniffling. "No. I... I am in love with him... with my - my boyfriend," he said. "Control has nothing to do with it. He's the only thing that makes me happy, like... like everything's okay again."

"I am a firm believer that love is love, no matter what form it takes," she said, squeezing his hand. "But this affair will hurt more people than just yourself. I would advise you to be honest, and make a clean break with your husband, especially if your heart is elsewhere."

Aziraphale clammed up, shaking his head furiously. "No, no, I can't, I - my vows," he said. "My husband wants to take me away, to move to America with him, and... I can't just walk out. Not now, not after so many years of - of being with him."

She sighed sadly. "Then I can't help you, Mr A, I'm sorry," she said, gently withdrawing her hands. "You need to make this decision, based on what you think is the most loving thing to do. Whatever you choose, I do hope you find peace."

"Thank you," he breathed, rubbing his reddened eyes. 

"Stay here as long as you like," she said, patting him on the shoulder as she stood up. "I'll be just in the next room, if you need me."

Aziraphale sat for a long time in the church nave. He had nowhere to be today. Gabriel would wonder where he was, but for once, he wasn't doing anything wrong. Even if he finally did storm down the hill and bang on Crowley's door looking for him, he'd find nothing. He pondered Reverend Tracey's words. What was the most loving thing to do? He thought of Crowley, of their romantic nights, lazy afternoons and secret phone calls. That was love. That couldn't be wrong, not in itself. He thought of Gabriel, of his scorn, his pride, his greed. He was brash, and he didn't think about anything beyond what he thought was the best course of action. He never thought of the most loving thing to do. Love never even came into it with him. Aziraphale felt a wave of anger break over him, making his shoulders lock up and his fists clench by his sides. In that moment, the choice was made for him. Stiffly, he got to his feet, turning to make his way toward the church doors. 

He had half pushed them open before he hesitated, looking back over his shoulder at the vaulted ceiling, where golden cherubs stared down at him through their blind, impassive eyes. He shivered. 

"Forgive me," he murmured, and the church doors closed behind him with barely a whisper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tracey: maybe honest, open communication would help solve your problems  
Aziraphale: ...  
Tracey: ...  
Aziraphale: murder it is


	2. Snakes & Ladders

Aziraphale knocked on Crowley's door. He answered promptly, looking vaguely surprised. He looked surreptitiously up and down the street, brow furrowed.

"Hey," he said, keeping a respectable distance between them. "It's Sunday..."

"It is," he said nervously, eyes darting around. Crowley kept rose bushes by the door, and those were always a nice distraction when he couldn't make eye contact. 

"You never visit on a Sunday," he said carefully.

"Desperate times. May I come in?" he said.

Crowley hummed, stepping aside. He scanned for witnesses on the street before he shut the door. He trailed his lover through to his living room, which he'd allowed Aziraphale to add a few touches to over the years. The tartan sofa cushions were his, as well as the classical-style paintings on the wall, and the old gramophone in the corner had been a little addition that they had both saved up for to buy together. Aziraphale had to be very careful for that, funnelling away small slivers of the allowance Gabriel gave him over several months. 

"I've been thinking," Aziraphale said, too agitated to sit down. "Our talk the other night..."

Crowley immediately groaned, covering his eyes. "God, that... Look, angel, I'm sorry. I was drunk," he said. "I shouldn't have put you in that position. I - "

"Let's do it."

He froze, lifting his hand off his face. "I'm sorry?"

Aziraphale swallowed hard, as if he couldn't quite believe the words coming out of his mouth. "Crowley," he said, closing the space between them to take his hand. "I am asking you to help me kill my husband."

He didn't move for a moment. He blinked, his throat rippling as he swallowed hard. "Shit," he said gruffly. He let out a shaky breath, gripping Aziraphale's hand with both of his. "You're sure this is what you want?"

His pale blue gaze shimmered with emotion: desperation, love, fear... He nodded. "Yes," he said. 

Crowley couldn't take his eyes off him. To him, he was the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. Even as he aged, Crowley only found himself drawn deeper in love with him, ensnared by familiarity and tenderness. One shaking hand rose to cup Aziraphale's face, running his thumb across his cheekbone. 

"And... and when it's done," he said haltingly, suddenly unsure of himself. His mouth had gone dry. "We'll be together?"

"I promise," he said, in barely a whisper. He leaned into his touch. In his heart, he knew that Crowley would still do anything for him, even without any guarantee of a reward. He loved that. There were no expectations placed upon him, and it made him want to give Crowley the whole world in return. 

"Right. Let me... let me think," Crowley said, shutting his eyes for a moment as he mulled over the possibilities. "We don't want to get caught."

"That would rather put a damper on things, yes," he said, giving a strained smile.

Crowley hummed. "Okay. Okay. We have a few months before you're due to move," he said. "We can't be too hasty. It would be suspicious."

"Only if it's obviously murder," he pointed out, perching on the edge of the sofa. Crowley sat down beside him.

"We could make it look like a heart attack," he said. 

He snorted. "Gabriel's fit as a fiddle. He goes jogging, and he insists on everything being low fat, low sugar and low joy," he said bitterly. "Better to make it look like an accident."

"Does a flying brick count as an accident, if I cover my eyes and lob it?" Crowley snickered.

Aziraphale pressed a hand over his mouth, laughter helplessly bubbling over his lips. "Oh, you are a fiend," he said, shaking his head. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Crowley's lips. He eagerly kissed back, his hands finding his hips. For a moment, all thoughts of murder were lost.

They jumped apart at the sound of someone banging on the door. Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath, staring wide-eyed toward the noise. Crowley pressed a finger over his lips. He nodded, and they listened closely.

"Janthony!" Gabriel shouted through the door. "I know you're in there. I can see your car."

Crowley tensed. He turned to Aziraphale, dropping his voice to a whisper. "When I answer the door, leave out the back. I'll stall for time," he breathed. "Jump the fence, and you can be back home before he is."

Aziraphale gulped, and nodded. Removing his hand from Crowley’s was like severing a lifeline. He made his way to the back door, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. When he heard Crowley start talking at the front of the house, he ducked out into the garden. 

Luckily, Crowley had very tall fences surrounding his property. He'd had them put in once it became obvious that their relationship would become a long-term thing. He liked his privacy, for obvious reasons. Aziraphale hadn't done this before, but he'd planned out his route, just in case. They had done a lot of ‘what-if’ planning over the many years they’d been seeing each other. He got a good foothold in the apple tree, using the gnarled and sturdy branches to lift him high enough to hook his leg over the top of the fence. He swung himself over, dropping down onto the other side too quick for anyone to have seen. He sighed in relief. There were no more back gardens here, only the stream running down from the top of the hill behind the houses. He'd need to hurry, but from here on out getting home would be easy.

Meanwhile, Crowley answered the door, leaning casually against the frame. "Good afternoon to you too, Gabriel," he said sarcastically. 

He gave him a sour smile. "I'm looking for my husband," he said, with a thinly veiled accusation. 

"Who, Aziraphale?" he said, tilting his head. 

"Obviously Aziraphale," he snapped, dropping any pretence of friendliness. "I only have one husband, don't I?"

Crowley picked at his nails idly, admiring his new black nail polish. "Oh, I don't know. That's none of my business."

"You're right. It's not," he said. He stretched up, trying to see past him into the house. "Where is he?"

"You look agitated," he said idly. He ignored the question. He stood up straighter, blocking his view. "Is there something you need to say?"

"Yeah, it starts with an F and ends in a K, with a Y - O - U at the end," he barked, fists clenched by his sides. 

"Rude."

"Listen, sunshine, you'd better tell where my husband is, or else," he said, stepping forward, trying to get in his space. Crowley didn't back down.

"Oh, careful Gabriel. You're getting very cosy with me right now. Aziraphale might think you're cheating on him," he sneered. In hindsight, maybe that was too direct of a jab.

He poked a finger on his chest. "You stay the fuck away from him, Janthony," he said. "He doesn't want anything to do with a manwhore like you. He’s too good for you, and I know exactly what you want from him."

"Enlighten me," he challenged, a spark of self-satisfied smugness in his gut. He'd been screwing his husband for eleven years right under his nose, and Gabriel was only just now getting around to warning him off properly? It was almost worth laughing at. 

"Is he here or not?" he said darkly.

Crowley leaned closer, so their noses were almost touching. "No," his whispered, with a mocking smile. He leaned back, putting some personal space between them again. "I haven't seen him all day. He's usually at church, isn't he?"

Gabriel huffed, already turning away from him. "Useless," he snarled under his breath, stalking off back up the hill without so much as a goodbye.

"Same time next week!" Crowley called after him with a sneer. Gabriel flipped him off over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale panted, finally reaching his own garden boundary. An evergreen hedge hemmed it in. When Crowley had helped him plant the hedges years ago, they had intentionally conspired to space them apart far enough that an unfaithful husband might be able to squeeze through the branches, in case of an emergency just like this. 

He pushed his way into the garden, greenery and small twigs tangled in his hair. He checked himself over, sighing in relief when he found that his jacket was intact. He'd kept it in tip-top condition for the last 20 years, and he wasn't about to let it tear now. He straightened himself out. Dusting off his sleeves, he started down the path past the weeping willow and the hydrangeas. 

"Mr Arch?" someone called. He stopped dead.

Slowly, he looked to his left. Over the low picket fence separating his garden and the next, his neighbour stared quizzically at him. She had a watering can in hand, poised over her flowerbeds.

"O- oh," he said, forcing a polite smile onto his face and hoping she hadn't seen too much. "Miss Device, how lovely to run into you. How are you? And your Newton, how is his computer programming course coming along?"

Her brow did not uncrease itself. She glanced back at the hedge. He swallowed hard, folding his hands tightly at his back, painfully aware that Gabriel could come bashing the door down at any moment. 

"Did you just... break into your own garden?" she asked, tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear.

"W - well, hm, not per se, no," he stammered nervously, fidgeting on the spot. "That was - I was just - "

"Sneaking in?" she guessed, raising a brow. Her intelligent brown eyes scanned his face, analysing every microexpression racing across it. 

"No!" he cried, far too quickly. He tried to pass it off with a laugh. "Oh Anathema! What an active imagination you have. How silly. Sneaking in! Well, I never."

He started walking at a brisk pace toward the house, checking his watch with agitated paranoia. Irritatingly, she followed him along the fence. "I'm right, aren't I?" she said.

"You are most certainly not," he said, cursing himself for the expansive garden. It had been a big attraction for him when they were viewing the property, and it was his own bloody fault that it had quickly become a giant pain in the arse. 

"You're being very suspicious," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"Says the woman spying on her neighbours," he retorted, reaching the back door. "Good day to you, Miss Device."

By the time he heard Gabriel return, he was already in the shower, washing off the sweat he'd built up from the run up the hill. He made sure all the twigs and leaves were washed down the drain or in the bin, and his clothes were already in the wash. He didn't want Gabriel catching a hint of Crowley's cologne on them. Turning off the water, he pulled a fluffy white dressing gown around himself, heading out into the kitchen with a docile smile.

"Good afternoon, dear," he said blithely, ignoring his thunderous expression. He ambled over to the kettle, clicking it on. "Tea?"

"Where have you been?" Gabriel asked, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He loomed behind him, but Aziraphale was not the type to cave in the face of intimidation tactics. 

"Church," he replied airily, taking out his angel wing mug. "Was that a no, to the tea?"

"I don't care about tea, Aziraphale," he said, eyeing him angrily. "I want to know where you've been all afternoon. I've been looking for you."

"Oh, you have?" he said, feigning innocence. "That's very sweet of you, dear, but you needn't have bothered. I was only having a chat with the Reverend, and then I took a turn around the village to see the last of the season's flowers. I got home not long ago, we must have just missed each other."

The lie slipped past his lips with ease. He had practised this, again and again. He was an innocuous enough figure that hardly anyone noticed if he was there or if he wasn't, unless they knew him personally. Even if Gabriel were to ask around to check his story, it was unlikely anyone would be able to tell him if there was any truth in it. He paused for a moment. The kettle boiled, and Aziraphale calmly poured the tea. In the reflection of the chrome kettle, he saw the tension drain from his husband's shoulders, and he knew that he had won this time. 

He set the kettle down, and felt Gabriel's arms wrap around him from behind. He tolerated the affection, keeping his own hands on his mug. "Been a difficult day, has it, dear?" he asked patiently.

"The worst," he replied gruffly, sinking most of his weight down onto his back. He quickly found himself pinned against the worktop. His heart clenched, suddenly filling him with the desire to get away. 

"I tell you what," Aziraphale said, wriggling out of his grip. "I'll run you a bath."

Before he had time to protest, he made his escape. Aziraphale avoided physical intimacy as much as possible with Gabriel, which wasn't hard most of the time, but it required a few excuses every now and then. He ran the water steaming hot, so it would last a good long while, and placed a tumbler of whiskey beside the tub. It would keep him occupied, and Aziraphale could have some peace to mull over his plans for the coming months.

He and Crowley hatched Plan A over lunch, in a quiet cafe down town (a quirky little place called Not-Exactly-The-Ritz). They never ate together during peak times, always just off, just to minimise the risk of being seen. It wasn't too much of a fuss if they were. It was nigh on impossible to do this for eleven years without anyone knowing, so Gabriel was well aware that his husband often went out for lunch with Crowley. He had begrudgingly accepted their 'friendship'. He knew that there was no way to control Aziraphale’s comings and goings whilst he was at work, so it was hopeless to try.

"So, an accident?" Crowley said quietly, his words inaudible to anyone but Aziraphale. The sound of clinking china, coffee machines and idle chatter masked their scheming nicely. 

"Yes. Something common," he said, sipping from his teacup. 

His partner leaned back in his chair, looking at him hard through his sunglasses. "Try to relax, angel," he said. "You already look guilty."

"I always sit like this," he said, fidgeting slightly.

"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the shifty look on your face," he said. He sat up, resting his elbows on the table as Aziraphale forced his face to relax. "That's better. What's your plan?"

"Falls are very common," he murmured. He took a bite of the cupcake he'd ordered. "If something on my roof were to break... Gabriel would probably have to use the ladders in the shed."

Crowley hummed, nodding slowly. He took a mouthful of coffee. "Old, are they? Rickety?"

"Very," he said. He ran his fingers over the rim of his teacup. "I've always said they were a deathtrap, you know. He never listens."

"Serves him right," he said. Aziraphale had never said any such thing about the ladders but, by the time they did their job, Gabriel wouldn't be around to say so. 

"Do you have a screwdriver I could borrow, dear?" he asked. He picked the strawberry off the top of his cake, placing it beside Crowley's cup. "The ladders may need a little... work."

"Hm, yeah, course. For safety," he said, digging around in his pocket. He passed a Swiss Army knife over the table, which was soon tucked safely into Aziraphale's pocket. 

"Thank you," he said. He scanned the room out the corner of his eye. No one had taken any notice of them, it seemed. The barista had their back turned, pouring a coffee, while an impatient customer was too wrapped up in checking their watch to pay much attention. 

"I'll see what I can do about your roof," Crowley said, drawing his eyes back to him. He popped the strawberry in his mouth. "What do you think - loose tiles?"

He nodded. "That should do it. Gabriel never likes getting workmen in," he said, then smirked into his cup. "I don't think he trusts them alone with me all day."

Crowley laughed quietly, flashing his toothy white grin. "Sweet innocent Aziraphale, untrustworthy?" he said. "I don't believe it."

"Oh, hush. Who's being suspicious now?" he said, giving him a light kick under the table. 

Aziraphale got home, checking his watch nervously. He waved Crowley off, fondly watching the Bentley rush back down toward his own house. With his back turned, he didn't notice the neighbour's curtains twitch to one side, drawn by the engine roar. 

Anathema was not nosey, per se... Just curious. Interested, even. She was a journalist, working from home, and these qualities were very much in the job description. Ever since she'd caught Mr Arch sneaking in, she'd known something was up. She guessed it was something shameful, judging by how evasive he'd been. Now she'd seen him getting out of another man's car while his husband was at work... 

So, when she heard a racket going on outside, she couldn't help but sniff around some more. She slid open her French window, stepping into her garden. At first glance, she didn't see anyone in the next garden along. Then, she heard a clatter.

"Oh, bother!" Mr Arch said. 

She walked over to the fence, listening for a moment. His shed door was open, but she couldn't see inside from this angle. She leaned over the fence slightly, trying in vain to peer inside. The sound of metal squeaking and clashing leaked out into the quiet afternoon. She opened her mouth to call out, but stopped. 

"A - ha!" the man cried victoriously. There was a ping, and a screw flew out from the shed, rolling across the garden path before coming to a halt several feet away. 

Aziraphale stepped out of the shed, going to chase the loose screw. He got three steps out of the shed before he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye, and jumped. "Miss Device!" he said, his spine going ramrod straight as he quickly hid the screwdriver behind his back. She hadn’t seen it. He pressed a hand to his chest, letting out a shaky breath. "Good lord, dear girl, you frightened me."

She tilted her head. "What are you up to, Mr Arch?"

"Oh, you know, just..." he said, gesturing vaguely toward the shed. "Things."

"Very loud things," she commented, leaning on the fence. Judging by the sour look that flickered over his face, she could tell that he was seriously considering a taller one. "Do you need a hand? It sounded like you were struggling."

"No, no, that won't be necessary, thank you," he said, kicking the shed door closed. "It's all done now. I do apologise for disturbing you, dear. I'll let you get back to work."

With that, he hurried back up toward the house, pausing only for a moment to snatch the screw off the path. Her eyes followed him closely, narrowed suspiciously.

Crowley had a delinquent past. Shocking, I know. He wasn't necessarily proud of it, but it was certainly useful now and then. He donned a black hoodie, something bulky enough to obscure his thin figure, and started up the hill. It was just gone midnight, and every window on the street was pitch black. It was a starless night. He held a crowbar slack in one hand, casually enough that even if anyone were to look, they probably wouldn't notice it. He sauntered with a vague sort of purpose, eyeing up each house as he passed. There was an old itch there, a little urge to sow some chaos... He ignored it. He'd moved past that a long time ago. Besides, Aziraphale would be disappointed in him. 

He stopped outside the Arch house. It was an attractive two-storey building, with beautiful slate roof tiles and plenty of footholds in the plants creeping up the walls. He'd only been inside a handful of times, since Aziraphale preferred to have their meetings at his place. Privately, he suspected it was because it might be pushing it too far, to have an affair in the very bed he shared with his husband. 

Checking once over his shoulder, Crowley approached the house. He steered clear of the windows, not wanting his flickering shadow to wake Gabriel. He grasped one of the wall-creeping branches, testing its strength. It held firm. Holding the crowbar in his teeth, he hauled himself up, climbing toward his goal.

He pulled himself onto the roof with a grunt. He sat, panting, on the slope for a moment. "The things I do for my angel..." he muttered to himself, as he began to knock tiles loose from the roof. Their landing was muffled by the shrubs clustered at the base of the wall. He was thankful for that; this would be very hard to explain, if he got caught. 

Gabriel didn't notice until he got home from work the next day. He shouted, drawing Aziraphale out into the front yard. "When the hell did that happen?" he said, pointing at the substantial bald patch amongst the roof tiles. 

Aziraphale put on a surprised face. "Oh, that is a puzzle," he said, tapping thoughtfully on his chin. He checked his phone, and tutted. "Bother."

"What?" Gabriel said irately, glaring at the roof as if that would do anything. 

"It's due to rain overnight," he said. He put his phone away before Gabriel could look across and notice there was only an 18% chance of rain. "It could leak into the attic. A damp patch like that... Could turn into a very expensive accident, dear. It would ruin the Christmas ornaments."

He huffed, fists clenched. "I'll get the ladder," he growled through gritted teeth, storming into the house. He didn't see the sly smirk on his husband's face. 

Aziraphale waited inside. He listened to the sounds of rattling metal as his husband dragged out the ladder, setting it up out front. He tried rearranging his bookshelf, just to occupy his hands. His heart rate began to pick up. This is it. Today's the day. Everything had fallen into place, the plan was in motion... He psyched himself up, leafing nervously through an antique Oscar Wilde without reading it. Right, he thought. You're about to be widowed. It's a terrible accident, it's very sad, completely unexpected and you're quite grief-stricken... 

Outside, Gabriel screamed. A cacophony of screeching metal followed, making Aziraphale drop his book in shock. There was a thump. Something heavy had landed on the paving slabs outside. For a split second, he couldn't move. He breathed heavily, throat dry. Then, he broke into a sprint, bursting out into the front yard.

"Gabriel?" he yelled, his tumultuous emotions passing nicely for panicked, husbandly concern. 

Gabriel lay on his side, half-curled into a ball. His face was scrunched up in pain. "'Ziraphale..." he groaned, slurred with pain. "Call an ambulance."

He hesitated. His eyes flicked over his husband: no blood, no head wounds, no bones poking through his skin. He was forming words, and could still move... Bugger. It hadn’t worked.

"Now, Aziraphale!" he barked. 

He jumped, rushing back into the house. Before he bothered to pick up the landline to call 999, he texted Crowley: 

ME: It didn't work, he's just hurt.

He dialled the emergency services, and the phone was still ringing when he got a text back.

CROWLEY: fuck. What's Plan B?


	3. The Forbidden Fruit

Gabriel got off lucky. He'd hit the overhang of the porch on the way down, and it had helped break his fall. His broken arm was held in a sling, and he had a few cracked ribs. He was well enough to work, since it was only an office job, but Aziraphale anticipated that he'd be in a foul mood for at least a few days. 

"It's a real miracle," the doctor said, as he listened intently by Gabriel's side. "If you'd had a straight fall onto the concrete from that height, you'd have been a goner."

He clenched his jaw. He had come so close to success... Crowley said he was already working on something else, so he just needed to sit tight and see what he came up with. He'd had to throw the ladder out. He'd done it as soon as the ambulance took Gabriel away, for fear someone would notice the missing screws. He hoped to god that Anathema wouldn't start putting 2 and 2 together. Luckily, she hadn't been home that afternoon. Her car was gone, and only her boyfriend Newt had come out, offering to give him a lift to the tip. Grateful that he didn't have to call upon Crowley, he took the opportunity to dispose of his would-be murder weapon before anyone could ask questions. 

He put some effort in with dinner that night, wanting to at least pretend to love his husband. Truthfully, he felt a little bad. A quick death was one thing, and inflicting painful broken bones was quite another. What’s more, he had hoped he'd be moving along with his life by now. He’d even been researching funeral arrangements in advance.

"Aziraphale," he said gruffly. 

"Yes, dear?" he said sweetly, not daring to turn around from the pot of stew he was preparing. 

"Did you throw the ladders away already?" he asked.

"Yes, of course. If you think you're going up on that roof again, you're sorely mistaken," he said, a hint of sharpness coming through. The false concern burnt a hole in the pit of his stomach. He'd like nothing better than for Gabriel to take the risk again, but if he said as much, he'd surely expose his intentions. 

"I wasn't about to," he snapped in return. Then, he sighed, rubbing his temples with his free hand. "I was going to thank you."

Aziraphale turned around, a hint of a frown on his face. "You were?"

"Yeah. That was useful," he said, his voice still stiff with irritation. "Can you call someone in to fix the roof?"

He nodded, taking the pot off the heat. "Of course, but... You usually like to do that sort of thing yourself," he said. He switched off the gas.

"Between work and the move, I'm too busy," he said. He smiled slightly. "How would you feel about a big American farmhouse?"

He winced, serving a bowl of stew with a wedge of sourdough. "Wouldn't that be a bit remote?" he said. He liked having things close at hand: shops, cafes, libraries, neighbours, et cetera. It made him feel less cut off, seeing as his life as a house-husband could be lonely enough as it was, especially if Crowley was out of town. 

"That's the beauty of it," he grinned. He picked up his fork, gesturing with it. "There'll be no more irritating neighbours around to bother you this way."

Aziraphale blanched. He realised, like a blow to the gut, that Gabriel wanted to isolate him, keeping him in a cage so there could never be another Crowley. "But... I don't want to be alone," he said weakly, clinging to the edge of the breakfast bar. He didn't even have a car of his own, and there was no way on earth that Gabriel would ever give him the money for one. 

"You won't be. You'll have me, after work," he said, shovelling in a few mouthfuls of food. "We could get a dog, if you're that worried."

He swallowed thickly. "What if I don't want a dog?"

"A cat, then," he said dismissively, tearing off a lump of bread. "I've already put down an offer for a place, nice and out of the way. You're going to love it."

Any guilt Aziraphale was experiencing quickly evaporated. He glared at Gabriel's broken arm, wishing it was his spine instead. He took a few mouthfuls of food, just enough to take the edge off his hunger, before retreating into the study. He kept all his books here. It was the one room that felt like his. He had a meagre two bookshelves, crammed full. Gabriel had banned him from having any more, so whenever he got a new one, he put it in Crowley's house instead, for safekeeping. Crowley jokingly complained, but happily allowed it. He said it made him look clever when he had visitors, so he didn't mind. All Aziraphale's favourite, most precious books were stored down the hill, for fear that Gabriel might damage them. 

He dialled Crowley's number on his mobile, peering around the doorframe to make sure his husband wasn't lurking nearby. He shut the door quietly, and sat down inside. The sofa was the only piece of furniture in the house that he had chosen, and it showed. It had an antiquated pattern and faded upholstery, and looked very well-loved. 

"Angel?" Crowley said, picking up.

"Please tell me you have another plan," he whispered desperately. "He's talking about moving into a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. I'll be trapped, Crowley, like - like I'm just his pet."

There was a silence on the end of the line, punctuated by Crowley's steadily controlled breathing. "Bastard," he growled. "You're sure you don't want to just do it the old-fashioned way and let me stab him to death?"

"I'd rather be locked in a farmhouse on a different continent than see you in prison, my dear," he said sternly.

"You could visit me."

"Crowley, if you dare - "

"I'm joking, angel, it's a joke," he huffed, and he could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "I've already got something in mind, and a backup if that doesn't work."

"My, aren't you the busy bee," he said, with a note of amusement. 

"Only for you, angel," he said dotingly. "Is Gabriel going back to work soon?"

"Tomorrow, in fact," he said, starting to subconsciously relax as his lover's voice washed over him. "He had a full argument with the doctor about it."

"Perfect," he said. "It just-so-happens that I'll be paying a visit to the office soon."

"Good lord, I forgot you two work for the same company," he said, clicking on the lamp beside him as he noticed the light levels in the room getting lower. 

"Yeah, small world," he said. "Anyway, I was thinking, workplace accidents can be as common as home ones."

"In an office?" he replied incredulously. 

"Any thing's possible if you're irresponsible enough, angel," he said sagely.

Aziraphale burst out into a fit of giggles. "You are incorrigible, darling, honestly," he said, shaking his head and thinking back to all the more amusing stories Crowley had triumphantly recounted about his ill-spent youth. "You won't be risking anyone else's health, though, will you?"

"There will be minimal risk to others, angel, I promise," he said.

"Minimal?"

"It's the best I can do in a public building," he said, with a nonchalant shrug, though Aziraphale couldn't see it. "Out of interest, what deodorant does Gabriel use?"

"... Pardon?"

Every now and then, Crowley had to report to his boss in HR, give a verbal report, do some refreshers on company policy, et cetera... Boring stuff, but he didn't make a fuss so long as he got his hourly rate. He was no one's favourite member of the HR team, which is probably why they let him work from home. He always tried to live up to his irritating reputation when he made an office call, just to make sure no one got any bright ideas about making him actually come into work at the main building. 

With that thought in mind, he banged open the door to his boss’s office with a rowdy cheer. "Hey, Duke!" he said, swaggering in and forcibly shaking his hand. "Good to see you again, buddy, how's the skin rash?"

"It's Mr Astur to you, Janthony," he said, snatching his hand back. The skin rash in question was still spread, red and angry, in patches across his face. "Sit down. The quicker we get through your audit, the better."

Mr Astur had been sour toward Crowley ever since he'd reported his friend, Mr Ligur, for embezzlement. He'd been fired as a result, but Astur could never find anything on Crowley bad enough to justify sacking him in revenge. The audit progressed like it usually did, with him cracking obnoxious jokes and Astur continually criticising his lack of professionalism. He kept a careful eye on the clock. Half-time rolled around, and Crowley leapt to his feet.

"Right! I call that lunch," he said, clapping his hands together. "See you in an hour, Duke."

"Mr Astur!" he corrected angrily as Crowley sauntered out without acknowledging him. 

He had to work fast. Gabriel had a private office on a higher floor, and there was a security camera on the ceiling. That was no issue. Crowley had enough technological know-how to hack into the security system and knock out the cameras for at least fifteen minutes. The cyber security for this building was laughably weak; after all, what hacker would bother to target a small branch of an American courier company? What really mattered was the human element. He timed his mission precisely so it fell across the lunch hour, and most people would be cleared out of the building. He lurked in the foyer, watching them go. He even saw Gabriel, which was a small comfort. It guaranteed that the office would be empty.

He took the elevator up, and with a few taps on his phone, killed the cameras. "Mr Janthony, your time starts now," he muttered to himself. Aziraphale would never let him live that down, if he'd heard it, but luckily he wasn't always there to witness Crowley's dorkier moments. 

He half-jogged over to Gabriel's office, which was helpfully labelled, and the door had been left ajar. It was a spacious room, four times the size of the cubicles on the floor below, with a view out onto the London skyline. He stared at it for a moment, with a weak sigh. Aziraphale would love this. He'd love living in London... maybe, once his husband was out of the picture, Crowley could take him here. They could get a little place, maybe in Soho, and open a bookshop. He'd like that. Talking to customers, surrounded by all his favourite things...

He shook himself, remembering what he was here to do. He plucked a pair of gloves out of his pocket, sliding them on. He knelt under the desk, finding a thick cable running down from the computer monitor. A took out his Swiss Army knife, which Aziraphale had recently returned. Double checking that there was no electricity flowing, he began to scrape at the plastic casing, exposing the wire underneath. Then, he grabbed the waste paper bin, which was also stationed under the desk, moving it until he could rest the exposed wire on top of the paper which was piled high in the bin. Now, the final touch. 

"Thank you, angel," he mumbled under his breath, taking out a can of deodorant from inside his blazer. Aziraphale hadn't just told him the brand, he'd given him one of Gabriel's actual half-used cans. It was covered in his fingerprints. He half-buried it among the paper, close to the surface. He could have believably thrown it in there, perhaps after a rush to get out of the house one morning left him without a proper wash. 

"Now, we wait for the fireworks," he said smugly, shuffling out from under the desk and making for the door. 

He returned to Astur's office after a quick lunch from a nearby corner shop. He made the rest of his audit as frustrating as possible, and left with a skip in his step... and ran straight into someone.

"Hey, watch it - oh," he said, curling his lip at the sight of Gabriel's face. "Fancy running into you here."

"Janthony," he said coldly, a sheaf of papers tucked under his good arm. "Still employed, I see."

"Course," he said, slouching against a wall. "I hear you've landed a nice promotion."

Gabriel smirked triumphantly, puffing his chest out slightly. "Aziraphale told you, then," he said smugly. 

"Oh, yeah," said Crowley, who had his own reasons to be smug. 

"It'll be a relief for us both, getting away from you," he said, looking him up and down with obvious distaste. Crowley had turned up in skinny jeans, a snug-fitting black dress shirt and his usual black sunglasses. It could only just be classed as 'work attire'. 

"What's that supposed to mean, Gabriel?" he drawled.

"It means you're going after something you can't have," he said, tightening his grip on his papers.

"He's not an object. For god's sake, he has a name," he retorted, agitated, before he had time to think it through. 

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, looking down his nose at him. "So you admit it," he said nastily. "You're trying to seduce my husband."

"No," he muttered, staring mutinously at the floor. I'm succeeding, he added silently. 

"You're a bad liar, Janthony," he said, pushing past him with his good arm. "I'd tell you to stay away, but he'll be out of your reach soon, anyway."

Aziraphale was surprised when Gabriel came early that day. He stormed through the door in a boiling rage, hair uncharacteristically messy and smelling vaguely of smoke. "Dear?" Aziraphale said, watching him stride into the living room. "Is something the matter? You're very early."

"There was an explosion at work," he said tautly.

Aziraphale's jaw dropped. "An explosion?" he echoed. "Darling, you work in an office. It isn't April the first, is it?"

"This isn't a fucking joke, Aziraphale," he snarled, turning his wild eyes on him. He jumped back, pressing himself further into the sofa cushions. "There was a can of deodorant under my desk, some exposed wires set fire to the waste paper basket, and the whole thing blew up."

"Heavens, was anyone hurt?" he said. Crowley hadn't fully elaborated on his plan, but clearly this had been it. 

"No. I was standing near the window when it went off. It missed me," he said irritably, rubbing his eyes and sitting down on the sofa. "I'll be glad to leave this fucking country behind... It's like everything's out to get me."

"Oh, dear, that's not true," he said, tentatively reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. It wasn't unusual for Gabriel to drag him into bed after a bad day to work out his frustration, but thankfully, the doctors had banned physical activity until his broken bones had healed. So, he felt emboldened to ask: "Is there anything I can do?"

"Just... just leave me alone," he said harshly.

Internally, Aziraphale cheered. Externally, he nodded sadly, and withdrew his hand. He left the room, all meek and upset, and left it a few minutes before he grabbed his coat and keys. He left the house quietly, though Gabriel had almost certainly heard him go. 

The Bentley was parked on Crowley's drive. With a sigh, he knocked on the door, and his lover immediately rushed to meet him. "Hey," he said, his face alive with anticipation. "So? What happened?"

"He's alive," he said, and Crowley's shoulders slumped.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not," he said, brushing past him into the house. "He wasn't at his desk when it exploded."

"Bugger," he said, slamming the door. "Either we're stupid, or you've married the luckiest bastard alive."

"Both, I imagine," he said with a sigh. He turned, blocking Crowley's progression down the hall, and dragged him into a kiss. He was quick on the uptake, and Aziraphale was soon pinned against the wall. It lasted until they were gasping for breath. 

Crowley rested his forehead against his. "Any special reason...?" he panted.

Aziraphale stole another quick kiss. "No," he said. "But I needed that."

He winced. "Has it been getting to you?" he said, gesturing vaguely. "All this... plotting?"

"A smidge," he said. He cleared his throat, standing up properly again and making his way into the living room. "You did say you had a backup plan, didn't you?"

He nodded, and took his hand. "This way," he said, leading him back out of the room. 

He stopped in his plant room. There was a rustle, and for a bizarre moment, it almost looked as if the plants were shivering in terror. Then, a pair of yellow eyes poked out from between the leaves, and Aziraphale smiled. It was just the snake, coming to see what was poking around in its home. Crowley knelt down, pushing aside some foliage to pick up a plant pot from the corner. He brought it over, presenting it to him. Its leaves were verdant and full, like all the plants, with clusters of red berries around the stem.

"Deadly nightshade," he said, his voice taking on a very serious note. "It's not ripe yet, but it will be soon."

Aziraphale bit his lip. "Poison," he murmured, staring wide-eyed at the plant.

"More than that," he said, reaching out to cup a cluster of berries in his palm. "They say the fruit is the devil's property, and anyone who eats it is punished with death."

"Heavens," he breathed, casting a desperately apologetic glance toward the ceiling. "Poisoning is very direct, my love. People are sure to notice."

"Nightshade doesn't show up on toxicology reports right away," he said, fixing his lover with an intense stare. "I didn't want to resort to this, angel. If this is what we choose next... you're going to have to nurse him till he dies."

His eyes widened. "What?" he said, taking a startled step back. His stomach flipped, making him nauseous. Crowley let out a long, rueful sigh, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"It's a slow death. Once he eats the berries, he'll fall ill," he explained, trying to keep his voice level. "His throat will go dry, he'll be thirsty, and vomit, and eventually he'll start to hallucinate. Anyone who sees the symptoms will know he's been poisoned."

"This sounds like a terrible plan, Crowley," he said, hugging himself tightly and feeling suddenly very small. He was now facing the enormity of the crime he'd been trying to commit. 

"That's why you have to be there," he continued, putting the plant pot aside, seeing the way Aziraphale was eyeing it fearfully. He came closer, gently gripping his shoulders. "You can call into work, tell them he's sick. You need to keep him out of sight until he's dead. When it's all over, you can tell the paramedics that he had food poisoning or something, and that he'd been refusing to get help since the start. If you don’t seem suspicious, they might not even do an autopsy."

He let out a shaky breath. "You really have planned this out carefully, haven't you?"

"I'd do this for you if I could, angel," he said hoarsely. He pressed his forehead against his, running his hands through his blond curls. "You know I would."

"I know," he said, and let out a bitter laugh. "You did just try to blow him up, which is a slightly more outlandish plan than this one."

"Had to try, angel," he said, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "I love you, and you don't have to do this. We can find another way, it will just take time."

He shook his head, laying his hand over the top of his. "No, it's okay," he said. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I can do it."

A tiny smile tugged at the edge of Crowley's mouth. "That's my angel," he said.


	4. Sweet Belladonna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People keep saying that they can’t understand why Aziraphale went straight to murder instead of divorce. I gave a detailed answer in a reply to a comment last chapter (which I deleted recently because it triggered my anxiety very badly and actually completely prevented me from posting any more since November 2019) so I’ll leave that here so it’s more visible:
> 
> “He opted for murder before divorce because to him, it genuinely seems easier. As someone who has been in a very toxic relationship before, I can attest that no matter how unhappy you may be, for some reason, it seems totally impossible to leave. It’s unthinkable. You keep hanging on and on and on thinking things might change, and they don’t, and outright leaving feels like admitting defeat. It’s like saying “all my suffering was pointless and I’m an idiot for not doing this sooner”. It might be true, but that just makes the thought of leaving so much more painful.
> 
> Aziraphale resorting to murder instead of divorce is his way of trying to escape, without minimising the issue of how truly difficult it is for him to do so. That, and he’s spent so long being controlled and manipulated by Gabriel, kept away from Crowley, that it’s also an issue of revenge.”
> 
> Many times during this story I have been tempted to write more obvious abuse to make this narrative make more sense, but I didn’t think I need to. What Gabriel is doing, controlling his husband, denying him financial independence, emotionally manipulating him, isolating him, it’s all abuse. It damages people. It makes you do things that seem irrational to others, in this case escalating to the point of murder. I didn’t write this fic to go hard into the theme of abuse, though, because more than anything, it would be highly traumatic for me to write. This fic is written in a very deliberate manner, so as not to trigger my anxiety... which ended up happening anyway due to the response in the comments. 
> 
> I would like to ask people to drop the issue of why Aziraphale skipped over divorce and went right to murder. I am sorry but I don’t want to have to explain the issue again, it’s just not easy for me. If people keep bringing it up I will delete those comments because, and I am truly genuinely sorry for this, but I will not be able to cope. It’s because of comments like this that I dropped the story for so long. I think the 6 month hiatus should illustrate in itself how much this has affected me. 
> 
> That said! I do appreciate and love reading comments, and each positive reader inspires me to do more, so I don’t want anyone to feel alienated by this. I love you all, I really do, I’m just asking for a little more sensitivity. Thank you all for supporting my writing and being positive forces in my life. Please, let’s keep it that way.

Crowley said the berries would be ready within the next few weeks. Until then, Aziraphale had to act natural. He had to prepare for the move. He went about his days with a kind of nervous energy, the like of which he hadn't felt before. He began to stress clean. The house had never looked so spotless, and Gabriel was very appreciative, for once.

"Keep this up in the farmhouse, and I'll be very happy," he'd once said, admiring the gleaming white surfaces around him. Aziraphale resisted the urge to force-feed him bleach then and there. 

He became determined that he wouldn't be caught. He began picking up old recipe books, leafing through them to find recipes that used blueberries, or better yet, black currants. The nightshade berries would be black once they were ripe, and he had to pass them off for something harmless. He showed a few to Gabriel, testing which ones he'd be most likely to eat.

"I don't like sweet foods, Aziraphale," he said snobbishly when he came in with the recipe book. "My body is a temple, remember? Minimal sugar."

"I was thinking I might experiment with some sugar-free recipes," he lied, fully intending to add the full amount of sugar to the dish. He didn't want him tasting poison, after all. "All for you, of course."

Gabriel couldn't resist flattery. "Well... maybe I could sample a few things," he said, pulling the book out of his hands. He began flicking through. "Hm... This one, this one... that cake... and the biscuits."

He dumped the book back in his arms. Aziraphale smiled graciously, but started scowling as soon as he'd turned his back. He might have protested against his rudeness, but three of the four recipes he'd selected used dark fruit, so he let it go. He'd set himself up perfectly. In the meantime, Aziraphale baked a couple of things, just to keep the pretence going. He did buy some sugar substitutes, to keep Gabriel from realising something was up. Summer was drawing closer every day, like a black cloud on the horizon. 

Then, one lazy morning, Aziraphale heard the letter flap clang. He'd only just woken up, and he wasn't yet dressed. He padded down the stairs, finding a bright pink envelope on the welcome mat. He frowned, scooping it up and tearing it open. He read it aloud, just under his breath.

"You are cordially invited to Reverend Tracey's first annual Spring party," he said, wandering back through to the kitchen. "To be held in the town hall, everyone welcome, refreshments provided. Forewarning to all parents, alcohol will be present. Dress code, smart casual."

His brow furrowed slightly. It was odd, he thought, for a vicar to be holding a party, but who was he to judge? Reverend Tracey had been talking for a long time about holding a large community event, something to bring everyone in the village together regardless of their beliefs, and he guessed this was what she had eventually come up with. He smiled softly. It would be a nice way to round out the season, especially if things were due to go very quickly downhill for him soon, one way or another. His phone pinged, and he took it from his pocket. It was a picture of a similar pink envelope, with a message underneath.

CROWLEY: please tell me I'm not going insane. do you have one of these too??

ME: I do. Are you going?

CROWLEY: only if you are

He thought about it for a moment, glancing back down at the letter. If Gabriel wanted to go, he and Crowley wouldn't see hide nor hair of each other all night... But this was Rev Tracey, and he vigorously disapproved of all things she was involved in. He bit his lip, weighing the risks. The Reverend was sworn to secrecy on the matter of his confession, so it didn't matter if she figured out that Crowley was his lover. That was probably not a very ethical mindset, he realised, but his recent actions had put him way over the line of 'ethical', and begun to sink him deep into 'moral insanity'. 

ME: I'll be there.

As he'd predicted, Gabriel had no interest in going to that party. He tried to stop Aziraphale going, too, but couldn't quite manage it. "I've already told Reverend Tracey I'd attend," he said. It was true; the Sunday after the invitation had arrived, he'd made sure to mention it after her sermon. "I can't very well back out now, can I?"

He ground his teeth, glaring across the room. "Fine," he said. "I'll be away that weekend, anyway."

"You will?" he said, genuinely surprised. He couldn't help but wonder if he might get away with going home with Crowley after the party, or if people might notice...

"Yeah. Work's sending me to the Cardiff branch to give them a spot check," he said grumpily. He looked at him with an unreadable expression. "You'll be good while I'm gone, won't you?"

"I always am," he lied, with a demure smile.

Crowley rarely attended parties. He wasn't the social type, despite his confidence. He preferred to keep a select few people close to his heart, and the rest at arm's length. He slipped into a neatly tailored blazer; it was new, and he'd been saving it for a special occasion. He'd hoped he might wear it at Christmas, but he couldn't be sure of that now. He'd had big plans for the coming winter...

He and Aziraphale usually had a mock-up of Christmas, in late November or early December. Gabriel was always busy around that time. They cracked open a nice bottle of wine, curled up by Crowley's fireplace in nice clothes (though they never went anywhere), and exchanged gifts. This year, he had planned a twist. He'd got everything ready. He had an expensive bottle, tailored jacket, custom-made diamond ring... Yeah, a ring. He had intended to ask Aziraphale to elope with him. It was a risk, he knew that. He might say no. He'd always been terrified of leaving Gabriel, no matter how much Crowley said he'd be right there with him, every step of the way. It had been eleven years. Their affair had gone from a dirty little secret to a full-blown double life for Aziraphale, and he couldn't keep it up forever. Crowley wouldn't even care if he left them both behind and gave up on romance altogether, though it would break his heart, so long as he was free. 

Then, Gabriel had gone and fucked it up. He'd got his big promotion, and unwittingly signed his own death warrant. Oh well. It didn't matter to Crowley how it happened, so long as Aziraphale had a smile on his face by the time it had all blown over. 

He arrived at the town hall fashionably late, waving to the already-tipsy parishioner at the door. The music inside was loud, 80s pop. The hall was half-lit by disco lights, with a glitter ball hanging from the roof and a fog machine in the corner. He raised his eyebrows. There was a bar, lit by neon lights, in the corner, and a wall covered in black lights. He whistled, though it couldn't be heard over the cacophony. Well... this was not what he'd been expecting. 

Aziraphale hadn't seen him yet. He was stood with Reverend Tracey, who had foregone the dog collar in favour of a garish bead necklace and bright pink flower shirt. They had to raise their voice over the noise to speak properly.

"Such a shame your husband couldn't make it, Mr A," she said, nursing a champagne flute in both hands. 

"Oh, this really isn't his scene," he replied, with a warm laugh. "I'd be surprised if he - "

He trailed off, his eyes catching on something over Rev Tracey's shoulder. Her brow creased for a moment, glancing backward to see what had distracted him so much. Through the crowd, a man in dark sunglasses sauntered toward them. She had to admit, he looked devilishly handsome. She looked back at Aziraphale's face, at the potent cocktail of dumbstruck adoration and ravenous lust written across his features, and realised with a jolt who this must be.

"You know, if this is a vicar's party, maybe I should start going to church," he yelled over the music, once he was close enough to be heard. He pointed at the roof. "I mean, a glitter ball? I love those things. Haven't seen one since I was a teenager."

Aziraphale beamed. "It is good, isn't it?" he said, then gestured to the woman beside him. "Crowley, this is Reverend Tracey. Reverend, this is Crowley. He's a neighbour of mine."

He shook her hand, complimenting her again on her party planning. She thanked him, and the three of them struck up a pleasant conversation. She had to admit, she could see why Aziraphale liked him so much... It was just a shame that he'd married the wrong man all those years ago. 

As the night progressed, drink started to flow. Crowley skipped straight to cocktails and spirits, while Aziraphale started with cider and worked his way up. Like most people, they were stumbling drunk by the time the sun had vanished behind the horizon, and the music was still going strong. The dance floor was packed, with as much coordination per square metre as one might find in a herd of goats. It became quite easy to hide. Not that they were thinking much of anything by this point...

Their inhibitions were down. They had all but forgotten about the ring on Aziraphale's finger, and were dancing together like no one was watching. It could not easily be mistaken for friendliness, either. Especially not when they stumbled out the back door together, laughing loudly as they stumbled all the way back to Crowley's house. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes the next morning in an unfamiliar bed. Or, more accurately, one that wasn't his. Crowley's bed could hardly be said to be unfamiliar to him, after all. He sat up, head pounding. The world swam slowly into focus, and he found Crowley beside him with his face buried in the pillow. Their clothes were scattered around the bedroom floor, and by some miracle, one of them had had the presence of mind to close the curtains last night. He didn't remember who. He checked the time. 

He poked Crowley awake. "Whuh...?" he mumbled, lifting his head blearily up. 

"Crowley, dear, wake up," he said, waving his hand in front of his eyes. 

"Oh. Hey angel..." he said, rubbing his eyes. Then, he froze. "Wait."

They met eyes. They were both disheveled, hung over and aching. "I don't remember much of last night," Aziraphale whispered, eyes wide with concern.

He stared back, biting his lip. "Me neither," he admitted after a moment. He looked around, especially at their clothes on the floor, and gave a sheepish half-grin. "... Maybe no one noticed?"

"Maybe no one noticed the married man leaving a party late at night, drunk, with his attractive friend?" Aziraphale said agitatedly, grabbing fistfuls of his hair in panic. "Or worse... What if your neighbours heard us?"

"They never have before," he said.

"We've never been that drunk before," he countered. He bit his knuckles nervously, his train of thought quickly getting away from him. "Someone's going to tell Gabriel."

"Not necessarily," he said, forcing himself to sit up straight with a pained wince. "Everyone was blackout drunk at that party, and it must have been late when we got home."

"Even half a memory is bad enough," he insisted. "If Gabriel confronts me - "

"Deny it," Crowley said fiercely. He squeezed his hand comfortingly, pulling it down away from his mouth and rubbing the sore tooth marks. "Deny it until you're blue in the face."

Aziraphale repeated it liked a mantra in his head: deny it, deny it, deny it. He kept it on a loop as he showered, took some aspiring and re-dressed himself. Crowley offered him a lift to the top of the hill, but he refused. The car was loud, and bound to draw more attention. He usually wouldn't mind, but after the events of last night... Anything was a risk. On a whim, he called Reverend Tracey as he began the long walk of shame back home.

"Reverend?" he said hopefully as she picked up. 

"Mr A?" she said hoarsely. "What are you calling for, so early?"

"Erm... It's almost noon, Reverend," he said, checking his watch.

"...oh."

"I was just calling to congratulate you on such a wonderful party," he said, smiling nervously though she couldn't see him. "I haven't had that much fun since - well, since my wedding, I suppose."

She hummed. He tensed up. "Yes, well, I'm glad," she said. "I am grateful that you showed such restraint, with your - your beau."

"My what?"

"Your lover," she clarified. "I realise it must have been hard for you."

He cleared his throat nervously. "About that... I seem to have some gaps in my memory," he said sheepishly. "Could you, perhaps, fill me in...?"

"I wasn't terribly sober myself last night, dear," she chuckled. "But yes. You danced with him, and I believe he walked you home. As far as I'm aware, that's all that happened. Yes?"

He swallowed hard, unlocking his front door. No doubt she heard the noise through the line. "Of course," he said, stepping inside. "Thank you, Reverend."

"You're welcome, Mr A," she said. "I hope you find your answers soon."

He paused, looking around his bare and featureless home. "As do I... As do I," he said, and hung up. He reached into his pocket, taking out the jar that Crowley had given him. He weighed it in his hands, his eyes fixed upon the plump black berries within. 

Gabriel got home right on schedule. If he knew about the party, he didn't mention it. Aziraphale didn't notice any strange looks in the street, or whispers, and he was almost prepared to believe that he'd actually gotten away with it. He went about his day like usual. He took the berries out of the fridge a few times, putting them in the side and staring at them. He never opened the jar. He didn't have the nerve, not yet. 

He decided to sit in the garden. He didn't feel like venturing very far, especially not all the way to the park. His back garden was nice enough, really. There was an apple tree, and a willow, and row upon row of flowering plants at the edges. He needed to clear his lungs, and his head. 

Someone cleared their throat to his right. He let out an irritated sigh, slowly turning his head. "I'm starting to believe I'll never get any peace in my own garden, Miss Device," he said. 

Her face was set into a stony mask. "I've heard," she said.

His brow furrowed. He sat up slightly. "Pardon?"

"Not everyone was drunk at the town hall," she sat, raising her chin slightly. "And not everyone went."

"I'd appreciate it if you were plain with me, dear," he said tightly, gripping the arm of his chair until his knuckles turned white. 

"I saw you getting home the morning after," she said. "And I know you left with Crowley Janthony, from down the hill. You're cheating on Gabriel, aren't you?"

He leapt to his feet, storming over to the fence. She jumped, flinching back slightly, but didn't move away. "That is a very serious accusation, Miss Device," he said, trying to obscure his panic as he faced her down across the fence. 

"I know I'm right," she said. She narrowed her eyes. "You've been acting strangely recently, too. You aren't hiding it very well. What's changed?"

He stared. "I... I'll be moving soon," he said, though he wasn't sure where the words were flowing from. "To America."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh," she said. "You're trying to sabotage your own marriage? Why not just walk out?"

He huffed, and grief flickered across his expression. He didn't answer her. Instead, he stormed into the house, feeling worse than he had before. He had so much anger, so much bitterness... The world really just wasn't ready to let him rest, was it? He looked at the clock. It was a few hours before Gabriel was due to come home. He had time, and he'd just decided that Gabriel's was running out. 

He wrenched open the fridge door, reaching for the nightshade berries. He slammed them down on the kitchen counter, and pulled the recipe book down from the shelf. "Now, let's see..." he murmured to himself, flicking through to a recipe he'd been saving up just for today. 

Crowley hadn't heard from Aziraphale since the party. He was slightly nervous that something had happened... He paced around his house, and even resorted to shouting at his plants to vent his rampant anxiety. Eventually, he collapsed onto the floor of the greenhouse, feeling like an utter madman. It was too late to call now. Gabriel would be home, and the last thing he needed was to make a phone call when there might already be tension in that house. 

He waited until the morning. The phone rang painfully slowly, and it was only picked up in the final ring. "Yes?" Aziraphale said. He sounded odd, as if dazed. 

"Angel," he said, sighing in relief. He slumped against the wall, clutching the phone to his ear as if it was the most precious thing in the world. "I was so worried. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said. There was a beat of silence. "My neighbour figured things out, but I didn't confirm anything."

He cursed under his breath. "And... what about Gabriel?"

"He's fallen mysteriously ill," he said quietly. Crowley took a sharp breath.

"Oh, angel..." he murmured, suddenly understanding why he seemed so out of it. "How long does he have, do you think?"

"No more than a day or two," he said. He hesitated. "Crowley?"

"Yes?" he said quickly, with bated breath. 

"When he's gone, I'd like to get away from this village," he said quietly. 

He smiled sadly, casting his mind to his thoughts in Gabriel's office. "How about London?" he asked. "We could get a place together. It'll be expensive, but we'll manage. You could get a job doing whatever you like, and I'd help you. One of those days, angel, I could take you to the proper Ritz, not just that silly cafe downtown."

He let out a noise that sounded halfway between a sob and a cry of joy. "My dear, that sounds perfect."

Aziraphale didn't go into the bedroom much. Gabriel was inside, tremors running through his body. He went inside only to dab his forehead, and check how far along he was. He perched on the edge of the bed, his face completely detached as he tilted his husband's head back, checking his pupils. They were blown unnaturally wide. It was one of the first symptoms, and it hadn't gone away even as the others began to set in. 

"Wh... what's happening?" Gabriel rasped, his eyes darting around the dim room desperately.

"You've had a terrible allergic reaction," Aziraphale said calmly, pressing a cloth to his forehead. "And you've got the flu. Nasty combination."

"I... I..."

"Hush," he said, putting aside the cloth and pushing him back down onto the bed. "Rest. Everything will be just fine, my dear. Trust me."

He got up, closing the bedroom door behind him. He pressed his back against the wood, and began to shake. Heat gathered around his eyes. Pressing a hand over his mouth, he let the tears fall. He could have asked himself What Am I Doing?, but the answer would have been frighteningly direct. He had started something, fifteen years ago, and now he had to see it through to the bitter end. Whatever that meant... he had to do it. 

He couldn't cope all day at home. Without bothering to even drag a comb through his hair, he bustled out the front door, heading down the hill. For once, he wasn't planning on going to Crowley. He only wanted to get out, and remind himself that there was a whole world out there, beyond the shadow of death that lurked in the dark corners of his home. He needed it. 

Anathema watched him go. She had noticed that Gabriel's car hadn't moved that morning. It was fairly innocuous, but to her keen mind, it was a clue. She'd had her suspicions that Aziraphale Arch was not as harmless as he seemed ever since Gabriel had fallen off his ladders. It was hard not to realise that, when she had seen him the shed, he'd been removing the screws. Then, there was the freak 'accident' in his office. Now, Aziraphale was practically running from his own home, looking more disheveled than she had ever seen him. He usually took pride in his appearance, but his hair was a mess, he had forgotten his bow tie and his creased shirt was not tucked in. She stared thoughtfully at the bedroom window of their house. The curtains were closed, and it was dark inside. 

She stepped outside, knocking on the door. If Gabriel answered, everything was fine. If he didn't... there was every possibility that Aziraphale had well and truly snapped, and she was about to walk in on a bloody mess. 

No one answered. Not for a moment, that is. She was about to try picking the lock, when there was a thump and a bang from somewhere inside. She waited, brow furrowed. It took a good minute of loud noises before she saw a large, lumbering figure appear on the other side of the frosted glass. It fumbled with the door for a another thirty seconds before managing to wrestle it open. 

Her jaw dropped. Gabriel leaned heavily against the doorframe, clearly completely disorientated. He didn't seem to know where he was. He immediately shielded his eyes from the daylight, and she only caught a glimpse of his enormous black pupils. He was shaking, sweating, and reeked of vomit. She had seen this before.

"Belladonna," she whispered in horror. 

She rushed him back inside, forcing him onto the sofa. He called her by a few different names, not quite able to figure out who she was. He was starting to hallucinate. It was clear, by the way he flinched at thin air, and stared in awe at the plant in the corner. Anathema ran back to her house, tearing apart her box of home remedies. She had activated charcoal, that would help. There were beach apples in her back garden; usually poisonous, but using them, she could cobble together a decent antidote for nightshade. She sprinted back into the Arch house, where Gabriel was now lying on the floor. She hauled him up.

"Come on, stay with me," she said desperately, breathing hard. "Stay with me..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I need to put a warning on this chapter, just to cover myself: do NOT try to cure any kind of poisoning using ANY home remedies! You may only make it worse. Always seek professional medical advice ASAP.
> 
> PS to all the people who have been patient & supportive in the comments during the long hiatus, THANK YOU! I don’t think I would ever have come back to this story without your love and understanding. 
> 
> (And I hate to labour the point, but PLEASE don’t discuss abuse or criticise my creative choices for this fic in the comments. My past experiences make this an extremely sensitive topic and I reserve the right to delete comments I find difficult to handle because of this. If you have nothing positive to add, just don’t comment.)


	5. The New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the positive response last chapter, I really needed it after spending so long away from the story, especially under the circumstances that I did. It really does mean a lot <3

Anathema was able to get Gabriel into a stable state, with enough makeshift antidote in his system that he'd be fine in a few days. The worst of the poisoning had passed. He had stopped hallucinating, but he was delirious, and extremely fatigued. She'd put him in the recovery position on the floor, hoping he'd stopped vomiting. She was just beginning to consider calling a doctor when she heard a key in the front door, and approaching footsteps. 

She got up, squaring her shoulders to face him. Aziraphale rounded the corner, and his eyes widened his shock, flicking over the scene. "Oh my!" he cried, his hands rushing up to his face. "Anathema, dear, has something happened? Is Gabriel all right?"

She curled her lip. "Don't play dumb," she snapped. She gestured to the shuddering man on the floor. "You did this, didn't you?"

Aziraphale spluttered, fiddling with his hands, moving his weight restlessly from foot to foot. "That - I - that's ridiculous," he said. "How could I have possibly done this? It's the flu."

"It's poison," she said fiercely, taking a threatening step toward him. He didn't shy away. "Deadly nightshade, right?"

That changed things. His flustered expression dropped, replaced with an impassive mask. He fixed her with a cold stare. He was quickly moving from frightened to frightening. He said nothing, clasping his hands tightly beneath his chest. 

She gaped. "Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" she cried. "Your husband is lying on the floor, he was dying because of you... for what? Just so you and your new boy toy could make off with a life insurance payout?"

Aziraphale's nose wrinkled. "You have no idea what he's done to me, Anathema," he said, nodding in Gabriel's direction, with barely enough breath behind the words for them to be heard. "I didn't want this."

"Then why?" she said hoarsely, her nails digging into her palms. She had been nursing Gabriel for the better part of two hours, seeing the raft of symptoms that came with the poison. She had seen his suffering. It was hard to forget.

"Think of an animal caught in a trap, so desperate to escape that it starts to chew off its own leg," he said, his eyes unfocused and vacant. "This was my last chance. There was no other way out for me."

She choked. "Just divorce him, you psychopath!" she shrieked, throwing out her arms. 

"I can't!" he cried, in clear distress. He began to pace agitatedly back and forth, shaking his head and breathing shakily. "It's - it's not that simple. I can't go. I'm not allowed."

"Not allowed?" she said, glaring at him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He won't let me!" he said, jabbing a finger at the unconcious shape on the floor. A tremor ran down his arm, and tears dripped down from his jawline onto his shirt. He let out a half-stifled sob. "Don't you understand...?"

Her anger gave way to pity, mixed with disgust. "No," she said, shaking her head and backing up. "Aziraphale... you know I have to tell the police about this."

He took a sharp breath. "No!" he yelled shrilly, wild-eyed panic gripping his face. He moved toward her, but froze as she flinched away, snatching a hefty bronze ornament off the sideboard to defend herself. "You can't."

"I have to," she replied, taking tiny steps backward, toward the living room door.

"No one will believe you," Aziraphale spat, face twisting from anxiety to anger to fast that it was hard to keep up. "The evidence is gone, the plants are destroyed. I'll have Gabriel sue you for accusing me of murder."

She couldn't suppress a laugh of disbelief; the audacity! "You just tried to kill him, and you think he's going to defend you?" she said. 

Aziraphale's brow creased into a thunderous expression. "I know he will. He's been delirious for two days, and all he knows is that I cared for him," he said, a vicious edge to his voice. "I was the one who brought him food, and water, and cleaned him up, and pressed a cold rag to his forehead. He remembers that. He'll believe what I tell him. What will he remember of you, amongst his hallucinations?"

Her jaw went slack. He was right. Gabriel had been unable to recognise her as she helped him, several times calling out Aziraphale's name instead. He seemed to assume that whoever she was, she was helping, and therefore must be his husband. A cold weight settled in her stomach. If the evidence was gone, and Gabriel himself wouldn't even testify that Aziraphale had attempted his murder... the police wouldn't even give her the time of day. Besides, who in this village would ever suspect the harmless, innocent Mr Arch? Crowley certainly wouldn't turn against him. Reverend Tracey had an irritating habit of thinking the best of people (though she may have had a different outlook, had she been aware that the reverend actually knew about Mr Arch's affair). Anathema's local reputation effectively amounted to a no-good nosey cat-lady in the making, and she had very little sway when it came to accusing an apparently upstanding citizen of a major crime. 

She pointed a finger in his direction. "You," she hissed, "are a bastard."

"Maybe I am," he replied, slowly tilting his head at her, gauging her reaction. "But you can do nothing to stop me."

She narrowed her eyes. "I can," she said, slamming the ornament back down on the table. "I can watch. I swear to god, Aziraphale, if anything happens to your husband, I am calling the police. He won't be around to defend you if you kill him, will he?"

He blinked in surprise. He hadn't thought of that. Gabriel had taken great joy in not having life insurance, calling the NHS 'the only thing that makes the UK worth living in'. That meant when he died, Aziraphale would get little to nothing in the way of a payout. It certainly wouldn't be enough to justify blackmailing Anathema to keep quiet, under threat of a lawsuit.

The door slammed behind her, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He turned. Gabriel lay unconcious on the carpet, shivering. Biting back a sob, Aziraphale dragged him up and slung his arm over his shoulders, making for the stairs. It was over. It was all over...

He didn't speak to Crowley until Gabriel was well enough to be back at work. Aziraphale had told him that he'd been very ill, and he didn't know why, but that he was glad he was well again. The lie tasted as poisonous as nightshade. Things were moving fast, and the contents of the house had been almost entirely boxed up. They were living on the bare essentials, and Aziraphale often saw Anathema keeping watch out her window. There was no hiding anything. Things had changed dramatically, and Gabriel had grown extremely anxious to move as soon as possible. He was starting to believe that England was cursed. 

Aziraphale found himself in Crowley's living room, in a patch of sunlight that streamed through onto the dark sofa. He stared at his hands. He could feel Crowley looking at him, nervous and expectant, knowing he hadn't yet said a word. He took a deep breath.

"Anathema, my neighbour... she knows what we did. What we tried to do," he said. He couldn't bear to look him in the eye. "She's threatened to call the police if anything more happens to Gabriel."

Crowley scoffed. "Then we'll just have to be more careful," he said stubbornly. "Not every murder trial even gets to court, angel. We could make sure you'd get acquitted."

He jumped to his feet, nervous energy infecting his every nerve. "No!" he cried. "Don't you see, Crowley? We can't! It's too risky, we'll get caught!"

They stared at one another in silence. The redhead took in a deep breath, gripping the back of his neck and pulling a pained face. "Then... what do we do?"

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes, though no tears had fallen. "There is nothing we can do," he said firmly, looking away. 

"No. No, angel, I - " Crowley said desperately, moving restlessly around the room, searching the walls high and low as if the answer might be written there. "Look, even if all this back here ends up in a bit of a mess, we could... we could go off together."

Aziraphale looked at him. "Go off... together?" he said weakly, hardly believing what he'd heard.

"Yeah!" he replied, coming closer to take his hands, anxiety colouring his movements. "Let's just go, anywhere in the world. I can take us there. The South Downs, plenty of spare cottages down there, no one would even notice us."

He pulled his hands away, backing up. "Oh, listen to yourself... We can't," he said, closing his eyes. He didn't want to see the pain on his lover's face.

"Why not?" he cried in alarm. He began to get agitated. "This isn't about vows anymore, angel, this is about us."

"There is no us, Crowley!" he suddenly burst out, looking him dead in the face. He saw those amber eyes fill up with heartbreak, and he immediately regretted his words. Then again... perhaps this was it. This was how it has to happen. "I... I am married, you are not my husband, and... and this never should have happened."

"You don't mean that," he said, his voice choked. He shook his head slightly, a tightness in his throat making it hard to talk. "You don't. You don't mean it."

"I do," he replied in a whisper, clamping his hand over his mouth as the cruel irony of those words set in. 

A single tear rolled over his cheek. Crowley moved to brush it away, but he flinched back, out of his reach. Crowley's jaw tightened. Aziraphale had never refused such a simple, innocent touch before.

He sniffled, taking his hand away from his mouth. "I only came here to tell you... Gabriel changed the dates. I'm flying out to America tomorrow," he said hoarsely. A meek, vulnerable sound escaped from Crowley's throat. "It's over, Crowley. I am so sorry, for - for the heartbreak I've caused you."

"Angel..." he breathed, his eyes filling up with tears. He gave a sad, pained smile, shoving his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out again. "Please... please, don't be sorry. Don't ever be sorry."

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. There was some truth to the old phrase after all: if you love someone, you have to let them go. Crowley was doing exactly that. They both knew, in their hearts, that if they were to so much as brush hands, they would not be able to walk away. 

"It has been lovely knowing you, Crowley..." he whispered, carefully stepping around him. He paused, letting out a shaking breath, feeling the burning, insatiable heat of loss wreathing around him like hellfire. "May we meet on a better occasion."

It was very early in the morning, just after midnight, when Aziraphale lugged his bag out to the taxi. Gabriel was already inside, waiting for him. He rolled down the window, sharply reminding him that they didn't want to miss their flight. Aziraphale nodded, not saying anything. He took a final lungful of night air, staring longingly down the hill with a sheen of tears over his eyes, and got in the taxi. The driver set off, already knowing their destination. The first few bars of a Queen track began to play over the radio, and Aziraphale's ears pricked up.

"Turn this off," Gabriel demanded, scowling at the radio. The driver reached for the volume switch.

"No, don't," Aziraphale interrupted. "I like this one."

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror and, seeing Gabriel roll his eyes and relent, left the track to play. Aziraphale sighed in relief, leaning against the window to watch the darkened village roll by behind the glass. This was his home. He had never liked it much, but it had always been the people that made it more worthwhile than anything.

_ I want to break free, I want to break free... _

He hummed along idly to the tune, enjoying the sound of Freddie Mercury's iconic vocals. Memories of long drives in the Bentley swam through his mind, with Queen blasting out loudly over the radio, bleeding out through the open window into the peaceful countryside. Crowley liked to sing along to his favourites sometimes. He couldn't sing for shit, but he sure did enjoy himself. Aziraphale found the ghost of a stupid smile stuck on his face.

_I want to break free from your lies, _

_You're so self-satisfied, I don't need you_

Gabriel had never been so undignified. He never sang, or danced, or did anything just for the fun of it. How had Aziraphale ever been deluded into thinking he loved this man? How did he even get here? It seemed pointless. The smile slipped away, and he buried his face in the crook of his arm while his breath misted up the cool window.

_ I've got to break free._

__

_God knows, God knows I want to break free..._

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_I've fallen in love,_

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_I've fallen in love for the first time_

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_And this time I know it's for real_

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_I've fallen in love._

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_God knows... God knows I've fallen in love. _

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He wondered if God would forgive him. He'd been unfaithful, after all, and tried to kill his husband... But he'd done it all for love. He'd stopped for love, too. How could he have ever lived with himself, if Crowley was thrown in prison as well? He didn't deserve it. Not like Aziraphale did. He knew that he'd been stupid, and thoughtless, and ruthless. He could only hope that the Lord would see the goodness at his core, if it was there at all. He couldn't be sure himself anymore. He didn't feel like a good person, being steadily carried away from Crowley with every passing moment.

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_ It's strange but it's true, _

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_I can't get over the way you love me like you do _

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He thought of Crowley. He remembered his face: that toothy grin, his vibrant eyes, slightly hooked nose and artfully styled red hair. Every detail of his face was set out in his head as clearly as an oil painting. How had he ever fallen in love with Aziraphale? Why had he risked everything to be with him, knowing he may have nothing to show for it? Even after it had all failed, he had still been willing to walk out on his whole life just so long as Aziraphale would be willing to go with him. He'd been willing to do that, and yet Aziraphale was not... What kind of a man did that make him? He let out a shaky breath, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the odd glance he got from Gabriel.

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_ But I have to be sure,_

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_When I walk out that door..._

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_Oh, how I want to be free, baby,_

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_Oh, how I want to be free,_

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_Oh, how I want to break free. _

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He could have walked out. At any time during the eleven years he'd been with Crowley, he could have walked out on Gabriel. He may have been terrified, he may have had to run from the house with a black eye and a split lip, or he may have even had to pay with his life for even trying... But he could have done it. A shudder ran through him. His heart jolted at the mere thought. He'd lied to himself for so many years, convinced himself to entirely that such a thing was impossible, that he'd actually come to believe it. He'd believed it so deeply that he'd tried to kill his own husband. He clenched his jaw, adjusting his position uncomfortably, noticing his own reflection in the dark glass. He stared into his own eyes, and he couldn't help but feel that it was not an angel staring back. Without Crowley around, he could scarcely believe that anyone would call him as such. 

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_ But life still goes on,_

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_I can't get used to living without, living without_

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_Living without you by my side_

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_I don't want to live alone..._

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_Hey, God knows, got to make it on my own. _

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A solitary farmhouse appeared in his mind's eye. He'd seen photographs of his new home; a three-storey building, standing alone on an endlessly flat horizon of agricultural fields. It was so far from civilisation that not even the faded shapes of the nearest town could be seen in the distance. He had no car, no money, and no recent work experience. The new house was not a home. It was a prison; tantamount to steel bars, wrapped in false whimsy and labelled The American Dream. He'd never leave it unless Gabriel wanted him to. No one would ever hear him, if he had to cry for help. No one would even know his face. 

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_So baby can't you see,_

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_I've got to break free_

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_I've got to break free_

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_I want to break free, yeah_

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_I want, I want, I want, I want to break free... _

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As the song faded out, Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, banishing thoughts of America from his mind. It was too terrible to entertain. He bit the inside of his mouth, drawing blood, in an attempt to stop himself from crying. The last thing he wanted to hear was Gabriel's voice, telling him he ought to be happy. 

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Crowley couldn't take it. Sure, he'd heard of all that if-you-love-them-let-them-go bullshit, but what about when 'letting them go' involved condemning your loved one to a life of isolation and abuse? He couldn't do it. He had to give Aziraphale another chance, he had to give him another opportunity to back out. He had to at least try to help him. He couldn't force Aziraphale to come with him, but he could give him a lifeline and hope that he would decide to save himself. 

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The Bentley's engine roared up the hill, and tyres shrieked as he braked hard outside the Arch house. All along the street, lights began to flick on. He stepped out onto the pavement, ignoring the shouts from disgruntled neighbours. He stared at the dark house. He ran up to it, banging on the door. The car was on the drive, so they were still here, right? 

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"Angel!" he screamed, hoping he'd wake him, if he was still in bed. "Angel, I - I can't find you! Answer the door!"

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No one answered. He gave a shout of frustration. He heard a different door open, and he jogged back down the drive, looking up and down for the source of the noise. His eyes landed on the petite feminine figure on the doorstep of the next house along, watching him with suspicion.

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"I should have known you'd turn up," said Anathema, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "You just missed them. He's gone, Crowley."

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He curled his lip. "Not if I have anything to do with it," he snapped.

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He sprinted back to his car, taking off with no regard for speed limits. If he hit someone, he hit them. Pedestrians knew the risks they were taking. As the Bentkey kicked up a cloud of gravel in its wake, Anathema watched its retreating brake lights. Over her shoulder, Newt padded into the hall, rubbing his eyes.

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"What's all the noise?" he asked groggily.

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"Either a romantic comedy, or a Shakespearean tragedy," she said, then added thoughtfully: "Or both."

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The airport was glaringly white. A biblical flood of bright light filled the wide open space, featureless and soulless in every measure. The staff all wore the same pale grey uniforms, with peaked lapels and a hat with an angel wing insignia printed onto it. Aziraphale shuffled uncomfortably, feeling very detached from his own body. He clutched his carry-on luggage with both hands, thinking about the tartan blanket inside, which still smelled like Crowley. It would provide a little bittersweet comfort on the flight, at least. 

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Gabriel led the way toward the check-in desk, going on about something or other. He was trying not to listen. Dawn had not yet broken, and there was only one person who he'd ever had to deal with at this time, and he was miles behind by now. It was funny, though. He could have sworn his voice was still echoing in his ears.

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"Angel?" it said. He frowned, lifting his head slightly. That hadn't sounded like a memory...

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He turned, his eyes instantly landing on a dark figure further down the hall, by a different set of doors. He gasped. "Crowley?" he cried in surprise. 

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Gabriel froze, turning sharply at that name. The sound had carried, and Crowley had heard it. "Angel!" he cried out hoarsely, sprinting across the empty hall toward him.

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Aziraphale almost forgot himself, and took a step in his direction. Gabriel's hand clamped around his arm, bringing him sharply back to reality. He swallowed hard, unable to move. "Great. What does he want now?" Gabriel muttered under his breath. 

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Crowley slowed down as he approached, out of breath and clearly disheveled. "Aziraphale..." he panted. "I - I couldn't just... let you go. Not without saying goodbye."

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He opened his mouth to respond, only to have Gabriel cut across him. "Well, goodbye," he said, shooting him a false, sarcastic corporate smile. "Glad we had this talk. See you never."

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He turned, about to drag Aziraphale with him, but was surprised as his husband forcefully broke out of his grip. He turned back with a scowl. "Aziraphale?"

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"I believe this is between me and Crowley," he said, mustering enough nerve to look him in the eye without wavering. Gabriel set his jaw. He looked at Crowley, and glanced around, noticing that the other people in the check-in queue were trying to stare with varying degrees of secrecy. He couldn't break this up without causing an even bigger scene.

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"Make it quick," he said eventually. His glare lingered on Crowley, and he stepped away to take his place at the back of the queue. He was mercifully out of earshot.

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Aziraphale turned to Crowley, standing only as near as he dared. "What are you doing here?" he whispered, somewhere between angry and relieved. His knees were weak, standing in front of him after being so sure that they'd never be so close again.

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"I can't let you do this," he said, Aziraphale's harrowing expression reflected back in the dark panes of his sunglasses. "You deserve so much better, angel, don't you see?"

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He winced, looking away. "I told you, Crowley, there's nothing we can do," he said. "We lost. I have to go to America, and maybe... maybe things will be better. Gabriel may be a better man in his home country."

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Crowley gawked. "That... won't happen," he said in pure exasperation. "You are so clever. How can someone so clever be so stupid?"

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He swallowed the lump in his throat. "I will miss you," he said quietly. He took a tiny step backwards, and began to turn back toward Gabriel.

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"Angel... oh, angel, please forgive me," he whispered, grief filling his lungs as if he was being held under in a bathtub full of water. 

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"What - ?" Aziraphale began, but he never got to finish.

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Crowley lunged forward, pressing his lips against his. His hands found either side of Aziraphale's face and it felt so natural, so full of love, that Aziraphale instinctively clung to him in return, kissing back with fervour. 

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"AZIRAPHALE!" Gabriel roared, making them jump apart. He pushed through the queue, storming toward them with an enraged expression. 

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Aziraphale took in a sharp breath. Crowley expected him to shove him away. Instead, he tightened his grip on his jacket, pressing himself even closer. "Oh, fuck," Aziraphale cried, dread painted across his face.

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Crowley's jaw dropped. He fought against a grin, trying to remind himself that they were in a very serious situation, but he'd never heard Aziraphale swear before - not even in bed. He'd teased him endlessly about it. He was quickly knocked back down the earth when Gabriel got within arm's reach.

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"What the hell do you think you're doing with my husband?" Gabriel bellowed, fists clenched by his sides. Behind him, the queue had ground to a halt, the customers and the staff both enraptured by the drama in the entrance hall. 

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"Er... friendly goodbye?" Crowley suggested with false hopefulness, his hands still cupping Aziraphale's face. 

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"Put him down," he snapped.

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"See, if I do that, I feel like you're gonna hit me," he replied. 

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"You're right," he said, rolling his shoulder as if he didn't want to wait. 

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To his surprise, Aziraphale stepped forward, pushing Crowley behind him. "You will do no such thing," he said fiercely. 

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Gabriel's face twitched. "Get out of the way, Aziraphale," he said stiffly.

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He squared his shoulders, facing him down. "No," he said, his eyes wide as if he couldn't believe the words coming from his own mouth. "I won't let you hurt him."

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"I can't believe this. Really?" he said, spreading his arms to get sure broadly at the garish white surroundings. "You wait until now, until we almost have everything we could have ever wanted, to start trying to kick against it?"

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The cords in Aziraphale's throat tightened, and Crowley raised his eyebrows, leaning back as if he expected him to burst into flames. "You think this is the first time I've fought back?" he cried, his voice shrill and harsh. He almost didn't sound like himself. 

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Gabriel rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at the crowd with a Hollywood smile. "You're making a scene, honey," he said through gritted teeth.

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Crowley rolled his eyes. "He's not the one who started yelling first, mate," he muttered under his breath.

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"Enough of this. I've had it up to here with you, Gabriel," Aziraphale continued furiously, holding his hand up near his head. "I have tried, and tried, and tried again to tell you that I don't want this. I wanted a job, and you said no. I wanted independence, and you said no. I tell you I don't want to emigrate, and what do you do? You buy an American farmhouse!"

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"I'm doing what's best for us, Az - " he began.

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"Don't even start!" he interrupted. Gabriel choked, taken aback. Aziraphale hadn't talked over him once, not in all the years they'd been married. "I have no intention of going to America with you, Gabriel."

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He scoffed. "What other options do you have, Aziraphale? Him?" he said, gesturing with distaste toward Crowley. "I don't think so. He might have finally gotten to you these last few weeks, but I'm prepared to overlook that if you just shut up and get on the fucking plane."

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Crowley couldn't help but laugh. It was a loud, raucous, mocking laugh. "These last few weeks?" he said, slinging an arm over Aziraphale's shoulder. He leaned close to his shoulder, giving a toothy grin. "Try the last eleven years, you knob."

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Someone behind Gabriel gasped. Gabriel himself suddenly went pale, his jaw hanging slack. "Eleven years...?" he breathed. The hurt lasted only for a moment, transforming quickly into bitterness, focused like a lightning bolt onto Aziraphale. "You manwhore. How dare you, you - you betrayed me, after everything I gave you?"

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Aziraphale raised his chin defiantly. "Well, if you regret it, perhaps there’s something I could give back," he said. Crowley looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before his eyebrows climbed high on his forehead as he saw what he was doing. 

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Aziraphale worked his wedding ring off his finger, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger before letting it drop onto the floor. It bounced twice, rolling a few feet down the hall before coming to a halt like a settling penny. Gabriel stared at it. His hands hung limply at his sides, and no expression could quite manage to form on his face. 

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Aziraphale turned away from him with nothing more than a sour last glance. "Crowley," he said sweetly, entinwing their fingers. "I'd like to go home now."

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A tiny smile twitched into the edge of his mouth. "I can do that, angel," he said, leading him toward the doors. They leaned close to one another, leaving the cuckolded Gabriel and a crowd of amazed onlookers at their backs. 

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They stepped out into the night air, walking across the short stay car park. Crowley had parked the Bentley haphazardly across two slots, narrowing avoiding the wing mirror of a nearby smart car. Aziraphale took a deep breath, the scent of oncoming rain and fresh-cut grass tickling his nose. The velvet sky was set with stars, glittering like jewels, and his heart swelled with love.

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"Penny for your thoughts, angel?" Crowley said, utter contentedness hanging in his voice.

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He smiled slightly. "It's a whole new world, isn't it?" he said, as his new freedom slowly unfurled itself at his feet. 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be posting the last part tomorrow, and this story will finally be a closed book after that. Much as I love the positivity, I’ll be glad to finish this off, at long last. 
> 
> Wishing everyone the best during quarantine, stay safe :)


	6. Mr Fell

Crowley woke up slowly, coming-to to find Aziraphale beside him in bed. Half-asleep, he wondered when he’d be leaving. The sun was already up. Gabriel would be wondering — hang on, no, that’s not right. A smile tugged at his lips. No more Gabriel. Not dead; just gone, for good this time. The only thing left was the divorce papers, but they needn’t worry about that right now. Aziraphale hadn’t looked so peaceful in months. 

When Aziraphale woke up an hour later, it was to an empty bed, and the smell of pancakes through the open door. He had no trouble recalling what happened last night. His heart leapt at the memory, still in disbelief. After all that, he’d done it. He’d taken the leap. He took a deep, satisfied breath of the sweet air, and got out of bed. 

“Morning, angel. Sugar or lemon with your crêpes?” Crowley asked. He was shirtless, with only a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder, drawing Aziraphale over to snuggle into his side. 

“Both?” he said hopefully. 

“Anything for you, angel,” he said, pressing a kiss to his temple and flipping the crêpe.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, filled with soft laughter and a cloud of relief, and disbelief, hanging over them. Crowley watched Aziraphale eat, savouring every mouthful, over the rim of his coffee cup. He deserved this; every piece of fine food, every moment of bliss, each and every mile that now stood between him and his ex-husband. Crowley thought of the engagement ring he still had in his sock drawer. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. There was no rush anymore, nothing to struggle against... A proposal could wait. They had time, and it wasn’t what Aziraphale needed right now. They’d build their life together first, and worry about anything else later. 

“I’m going to visit the church this morning, if you’d like to come along,” Aziraphale said, once breakfast was done.

He wrinkled his nose. “Nah, not my thing,” he said. “I’ll wash the dishes, and when you’re back, we can put a film on. How about it?”

“Sounds delightful,” he said, kissing him softly on the cheek before he left.

Aziraphale’s walk to the church was bizarre. He’d taken it many times before, but somehow it felt different. He felt untethered, suddenly awake, as if he’d just stepped out of a world made of plastic and into the real one. He could breathe again. He glanced up at the church spire looming above him, silhouetted against the blue sky. Summer had arrived, and it was beautiful. 

He stepped inside. The door had been left open to allow a cool breeze to circulate, and the nave was empty, for the most part. Reverend Tracey was fussing over the altar cloth. He cleared his throat. 

She turned. “Oh! Mr Arch, what a surprise,” she said, hurrying down to meet him. “I’d heard you’d left for the States already.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said with a sheepish smile. “And, erm... it’s Mr Fell now, actually.”

Her eyebrows quirked up, and she glanced down at his ring finger. “You’ve finally made your choice, then,” she said, with a bittersweet smile. She touched his arm gently. “I’m very happy for you, Mr F. It can’t have been easy.”

“Not in the slightest,” he said, shuddering slightly to think of what could’ve happened. “I just wanted to thank you, for... for your discretion on the matter.”

“Very good at discretion, me,” she said with a sly wink. “Forgive me for being nosey, but... Mr Janthony, is he...?”

“Very much still in the picture, yes,” he said. 

“And what a lucky man he is,” she said. Aziraphale beamed. “I wish you both all the best, Mr F. I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

“I think we will,” he said, blushing slightly, realising just how much more life he had left to spend with Crowley. “I’ll see you on Sunday, Reverend.”

“I’ll look forward to it. And if you ever just feel like a silly chat, off the record, you know where to find me,” she said, grinning. “Perhaps try to bring your darling along to the next sermon.”

He scoffed fondly. “If he can even walk on consecrated ground, the devil,” he said in amusement. 

He found Crowley in the living room at home, his laptop open as he lounged back on the sofa. He jumped when he spotted Aziraphale, half-closing the lid. “Angel,” he said. “That was quick.”

He glanced suspiciously at the laptop. “I only popped in for a quick chat,” he said. Crowley squirmed. “What are you up to?”

“I - I - er,” he said. He saw a flicker of uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes, the remnants of many years of secrecy and paranoia. It broke his heart, and he relented. “Come here, angel. I’ll show you.”

He settled against his side on the sofa, with a nervous glance at his face. Crowley lifted the screen. “I was going to wait until you were back on your feet properly, but... here,” he said. An auction site was open, with a picture of property which would soon come on the market: a burnt-out husk of a place, really, on the corner of a street. “What do you think?”

“It looks like a ruin,” he said flatly. His anxiety had dissipated, at least. 

“Hey, not really. There was a fire, but the shell of the building is completely fine. It’s stable, they’ve done a survey and everything,” he said. “S’just a bit of a fixer-upper, that’s all.”

“Where is it?” he said, leaning his head on his shoulder as he flicked through the images of the scorched building. It had potential, he had to admit. 

“Soho. Nice location, and it’s cheap, for the area. We could afford it together. I know you always wanted a job anyway,” he said. “I’ve got savings, and a few handymen who owe me some favours. More than enough to sort this out.”

It was an alluring prospect. He’d wanted to leave this village for a long time, and having a project to work towards would no doubt give him a sense of purpose. That was half of Crowley’s plan; rebuild his confidence, raise his self-esteem, support him as he finally took his independence by the horns. The other half... 

He cleared his throat. “I thought that, once it was done... maybe you could open a book shop,” he suggested carefully. He saw the way Aziraphale’s ears pricked up. “You don’t have to, ‘course, but... it’s a perfect opportunity, right?”

“A book shop, of my own?” he said, in awe of the very prospect. He’d always loved the thought of working in a bookshop, and had even done summertime work in one as a teenager. His ambitions had never been so lofty as to become a businessman in his own right. “Now there’s an idea.”

“Well? What do you think?” he said, gently playing with his hair, looking at the old building. “Should I put in a bid?”

Gabriel lived alone. His husband had left him the better part of a decade ago, and he hadn’t come back. He’d sat by his phone for the first week, expecting a tearful call, begging for forgiveness. None came. The next week, he wondered if Aziraphale might find his way onto a plane to come crawling back in person. The week after that, the divorce papers arrived. 

Aziraphale had never even looked back. It burnt Gabriel, knowing that. As far as he was concerned, he’d been nothing short of perfect, and for what? Bitterness took hold, in his new farmhouse in the country. He got himself a dog, and it was almost the same, apart from when he couldn’t get the damn thing to stop barking. At least Aziraphale had been quiet, most of the time. 

He looked for him, on the internet. Aziraphale didn’t seem to have any digital footprint at all. He did find Janthony’s social media, but all his accounts were private. He couldn’t let it go. He kept searching, kept checking back, desperate to confirm what he hoped was true. He wanted to know that their relationship had failed. He wanted to find Aziraphale destitute and unhappy, just waiting for him to come back and pick him up again. It would be perfect. He clung to that fantasy, until one day, something changed. Crowley Janthony’s account name changed to Crowley Janthony-Fell. 

He stared at his computer for a long time. It couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have married Aziraphale, no. Why? Why would he have done this? He threw his laptop aside, not caring if it broke, and reached for a bottle. Fine. If he wanted to sit in some drab little house with that gangly freak, so be it. Gabriel was too good for him anyway. What did he care?

On the day that Gabriel finally stopped chasing the fantasy of his return, Aziraphale slept soundly in his bed, dreaming of his wedding night the week before. He hadn’t spared a thought for his ex in many years. The road to recovery had been long and fraught, but Crowley has always stood by him. His patience had been never-ending. When he’d finally proposed, after seven years of waiting for the right time, Aziraphale had been thrilled to say yes. 

The life they’d built was every bit as bright and warm as they’d hoped. Piece by piece, they’d fixed the building in Soho, eventually christening it AZ Fell & Co. Aziraphale made most of his money restoring old books and trading in newer novels and less collectible antiques; he couldn’t bear to part with the truly valuable ones. Once he came out of his shell at the beginning, he developed a rather fiery streak, which reared its ugly head whenever a customer was especially rude. Crowley was delighted. It wasn’t just the hilarity of watching his angel verbally attack someone; it was the knowledge that he could finally stand up on his own two feet, and hold his ground. He was the proudest boyfriend in London (and most of London knew it.) 

Crowley never stopped doting on Aziraphale. He took him to the Ritz, he showed him all London’s best landmarks, and he always let him choose where they went next. Crowley came and went from the shop as he pleased, no longer having to worry whether Aziraphale was safe without him. They laughed, and they joked, and they bickered like an old married couple - which they were, really. 

One night, in a haze of good wine in the cosy back-room of the shop, they sat cuddled close on the sofa. “I do love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured into his shirt. 

“Love you too, angel,” he said, tightening his hug a little, pressing a kiss to his head. “More wine?”

“Hm, if you would,” he said, dopey, holding up his empty glass. “Put some music on too, wouldn’t you, dear? Not bebop.”

He rolled his eyes, but smiled. They’d had the bebop conversation many times before, and he was convinced he said it just to irk him at this point. “Tori Amos?”

“Perfect,” he said, letting Crowley stand up to put on the vinyl. He watched him, the alcohol making it even harder than usual not to cling to him like the whole world was ending. But that was the beauty of it: it wasn’t. The world was still turning, and all was well. Blissful love had finally overwritten the past, and now, he had all the time in the world, with the man he loved. Crowley sat back beside him, stealing a kiss as if he knew what he was thinking. Looking in his eyes, feeling the connection between them, he could almost believe it was possible. Aziraphale pressed their lips together again, and again, tender and unhurried, as their song began to play.

_That certain night_  
_ The night we met _  
_ There was magic abroad in the air _  
_ There were angels dining at the Ritz _  
_ And a nightingale sang in Berkeley square... _


End file.
